Wall, Hearth, and Home
by RedSmileyFace
Summary: Alternate Universe. All characters are either a wildling, a crow on the wall, a companion at the brothel, or some combination of the above. For mature, and open, readers. Final warning, for mature only. Multiple pairings.
1. Jon Snow and Ygritte

**Author's Note: This idea started out as pure smut, but then themes, arcs, and plots found their way into some of the chapters. Now it's porn with plot (or is it the other way around?) Some chapters will stand as one shots, and other will have connections with other chapters, but all will be in the same universe. The first half of this chapter sets up the history of this universe, but then there's smut to the end. **

Fifty years after Jeor Mormont became Lord Commander of The Wall, one could safely say that the honor that once stood there was back. There had been a few centuries where The Wall was shunned as just another type of prison, a place pretending that sins could ever be forgiven and deigning to "man the wall" with only three forts open, run down ones at that.

Before those bleak centuries, sins had been forgiven, names were remembered, knights led, and men wanted to go there, for glory and honor, in any of the twenty well kept forts. After Jeor Mormont became Commander, the same was true again. What was different between the before and the after, was that forgiveness was earned, women could share the honor, and any knights who came shed their titles as well.

There was now a system in place to gauge a person's worthiness. It works, even though it was scorned at first. The Wall was no longer a degrading thought, no longer ill conceived as a den of thieves, murderers, and rappers: now it held the distinction as the finest company of soldiers, west of the Narrow Sea. Anyone wearing black was revered as better then even a knight. The only vow they took was to the Watch, shedding ties to family or home, and forsaking any spouse.

Anyone on The Wall not wearing black was in any of the stations below. A person with the next highest honor, just shy of wearing the black except for the vow, were held in esteem, but could not command a castle. These men and women are held back by familial duty, or are married. They are free to come and go from The Wall, to divide their loyalty, or get married (or stay married, if that were the case). The system goes down from there.

Besides the forts, the gift has been open to the families of those on the wall. Houses and villages spread out between The Wall and the lands of the lords. These lands fly banners with Crows on them, but each village or home is allowed a banner of Southron lord to fly underneath the Crow. Their loyalty may be to a Southron House, but their goods and services belong to The Wall.

Traffic to and from the wall is also different then it has ever been. The Wall now has an open door policy with wildlings, who can pass to the wild north, or south to the "gift", with an inspection, of course. The only thing The Wall keeps out is actual condemned people, White Walkers, and the Others.

The Last Home and Hearth (or First, depending which way you were traveling) was an establishment more recently erected in Mole Town, just south of the Wall. It was a new era, of wildlings traveling to and from north of the wall, and honor coming back to the name "Night's Watch", and a new commander, Lord Commander Jon Snow.

Wives were still vowed against, but no longer was whoring a hush-hush and secret deal. It was out in the open. Snow decided that to mark his assumption of command, he would enact the opening of a legal brothel for the crows. As such, he granted a wildling woman, Val, the rights to open one in Mole Town, the Last Hearth and Home, "Hearth" for short. There were even plans to open more such places nearer to the other forts.

Lord Commander Snow, to show that he was serious and wasn't tricking his men into doing something he would later chop their heads off for, was the first crow to enter the Hearth. An honorable man, not really brainless with lust over women like most others, did a quick glance among the ladies, and selected a young woman, near his age, who had hair red as fire, wearing only a white cotton shift. Her name was Ygritte, had been born a wildling, and was one of the less fancy ladies present. She had almost took the black herself, before deciding she'd rather fight on furs instead of with steel.

Ygritte was rough as soon as they entered the room, shoving Jon onto the furs that covered a straw bed, pouncing on him shortly thereafter. She didn't bother with his sword or gloves or boots, but just started kissing him, her hands stroking his manhood beneath his breeches. He groans into her, thrusting into her hands.

She stops what she was doing to take off her thin shift, and then goes back to his pants. She smiles at his dazed look, untying his breeches slowly. When his manhood is released, it springs out hard and straight. She laughs, raising herself to her knees. Jon grabs Ygritte's hips with his gloved hands, and they bring their sexes together.

It's a fast pace, but a satisfying one for the both of them. To shake things up, Jon manages to turn them over, weapons clanking, his cloak spilling over them, creating a tent to hide their activities from observers.

There were no observers, obviously, and neither did they really care, except that the new position was a welcome one. Ygritte arches into him, her head falling back to the bedding, opening her throat for Jon's kisses and bites.

She scratches his scalp, keeping his head from moving away, and wraps her legs harder around him as she climaxes.

Jon was still hard, though, but willing to stop for a moment. They share a smirk as he lies back on his knees. He goes to take off his gloves, sword, cloak and doublet, revealing a sweaty tunic underneath. Though it's nippy in the room their actions have been literally and figuratively heated.

Ygritte sits up to help Jon take off his tunic, and she starts kissing his chest. He doesn't need any more foreplay, but is pleased she wants to touch him anyway. He goes to touch her, finally, with gloveless hands, relishing in her warm and leather skin (for she is no silken lady).

For each kiss she places on his chest, a new caress works over her skin. It starts at her sides, and moves to her shoulders and upper arms. Innocent touches, but it's nice. Then he's stroking her ribs, and the swell of her breasts, and Ygritte has to acknowledge her pleasure with a moan.

Jon turns them, yet again, so that he is sitting, with her on his lap. As her arms snake around his neck, he continues his caresses upon her breasts, making his way to her nipples and tweaking them. She makes her pleasure known by grinding against him.

In retaliation, he grabs her hips, and raises her off him, like he was displeased with her, but then he roughly brings her down on him, causing her to yelp, and he to groan. He goes to do it again, and Ygritte moves to help him.

She's moving herself now, and Jon starts meeting her midway. He hugs her to him while they frantically hump, and he outrageously thinks he wishes his boots were off, so his toes could grip the furs. But who thinks of such things at these moments? He laughs, and so does she, though she doesn't get the joke, she just likes to laugh.

Moans replace laughter, almost covering the sounds of slapping skin. A few more rough meetings of the sexes, and their both climaxing together, groaning together, falling down to the furs together.

Coming down from their high, they stare at each other for a beat, before their laughing again. Comfortable with each other, though they only met a short while ago.

Smirking to himself as he finally removes his boots after they disentangle, he thinks the Hearth was the best thing he could have approved of, before turning towards Ygritte again.

**Post Script: Hope you like! Reviews? **

**I have a bunch of half finished chapters, but I don't know how quickly I'll post new chapters. But I do promise, there's more. If you have ideas for couples and/or situations, let me know, but I make no promises, and no slash. There _might_ be one or two slash, but it's hard for me to write (since I'm straight), so I'd rather not have the pressure. But who can resist a couple so in love with each other, no matter their preferences?**

**Post Post script: I'm not real familiar with writing smut. So, actually a beta reader might be nice. Unless you think I'm doing fine on my own?**


	2. Robb and Sansa

**Author's Note: Well, I realize I did it again, made a plot driven chapter. ARGH! Well, there is some smut near the end, and there will be more "exciting" chapters later on. Without further ado...**

SANSA AND ROBB

Every now and then, the crows would flock south and east to recruit. Robb was a recruiter, and loved it. He would go from house to village to inn; sometimes a brothel, and he would partake in whatever hospitalities were offered. He was kind, genial, and an all around levelheaded guy; he was perfect for the job.

Robb thanked the Gods, Old and New, that Jeor Mormont had seen that in him, before he passed away. Jeor instructed Robb's fellow steward, Jon, to reassign Robb from stewardship and send him recruiting. As much as he loved his "brothers" and Commander Mormont, he was enjoying his new role more then ever thought he would. He was currently "ranging south", as they jokingly called recruiting, in the Riverlands. A Lord and Lady Frey were hosting them, though not at the Twins. This particular Lord Frey was a grandson of the Late Walder Frey (late to his own death, most said), and wouldn't inherit the Twins, unless twenty or so other men died first.

Robb's fellow brother, Theon, was there as well, and would take any recruits and a few other crows in their group, back to the Wall after this visit. Currently, however, Theon was commenting on how beautiful Riverland ladies were. "How different from any other 'beautiful ladies' you see in every place?" Asks Robb.

Theon laughs, and offers, "Well, you don't see many redheads anywhere else, unless it's a wildling. Blue eyes are more like sapphires here, then anywhere else, and have you ever seen a sand snake with cheekbones like hers?" He points to Lady Sansa Frey as proof.

"No." concedes Robb. They share a laugh, drink a few more ales, and then eat some more roast pig. When it comes time to open the dance floor, Robb goes to the high table to ask the lady of the house for a dance, as was proper respect, but Lord Frey interjected, "My lady wife does not dance."

Bowing, Robb turns to other women for the honor of a dance, and thinks not of Sansa anymore.

That night, however, as he's drunkenly trying to find the room they assigned for him, he hears furniture crashing, and he turns towards the sound. Coming upon the Lord and Lady's apartments, he frowns. His sobering thought is that an assassin is attacking his host.

Thinking no further, he unsheathes his sword and kicks open the door. What he sees, however, is not an assassin, but an abusive husband who has thrown his naked wife against furniture. In the few seconds it takes to process this scene and its implications, Lord Frey has his own sword out.

"What in the seven hells are you doing?" Lord Frey shouts at Ser Robb.

Robb does not take his eyes off of Sansa, though it is not her nakedness that rivets him, but her many injuries that normally would be hidden by a dress. "I had thought you were being attacked, my lord, upon hearing furniture crashing. I rushed to your defense."

Lord Frey is not pleased. "It is just I and my wife. Leave us!"

Robb finally looks at the Frey man. "No." Frey sputters, but Robb continues, "A man of the Night's Watch defends the realm, and what you are doing, is clearly a violation of a citizen. I am sworn to defend a lady in her need."

It is clearly flimsy reasoning; there was no such precedent for a crow defending a beaten wife of a lord, but neither is it false reasoning. There might as well have been such rules, since the Night's Watch _was _tasked to defend citizens.

Frey cannot figure out if it is some cruel jape or not, but decides to err in safety, and charges the crow with his sword swinging. Robb meets him, and the clang is loud, echoing through the open door and down the corridors. A few more clashes, and most of the people sleeping on that floor have awoken, and come to see what the ruckus is.

After a few more clashes, Robb sees an opening and kicks lord Frey away from him. Frey crashes against a fallen table, and promptly tumbles down to the floor. He makes to stand up again, but his sword hand is stepped on, and Robb's sword point is at his throat; Frey is forced to say, "I yield."

Robb turns towards Theon, who, awoken by the sounds, is at the doorway. "We will leave at dawn, we won't stay any longer. Lady Sansa will come with us, be sure there's an extra horse for her." Seeing Theon nod, Robb turns to Sansa, to help her in some way.

"My lord!" she gasps, and Robb barely has time to turn around, let alone defend himself, to see Frey charging him with his sword.

Just as Frey is about to swing, he lurches, misses Robb, and falls to the floor, dagger in his back. Robb turns to see Theon in post throw. "You sleep with a dagger?" As Theon has obviously came from bed.

Theon smirks, righting himself. "You don't?" He counters. "I'll see to the horses." And he walks away to do so, though it is a few hours into the night.

That was three days ago. Now the crows, their current batch of recruits, and Lady Sansa, were traveling to the King's Road. Upon reaching the King's Road, they would split up: Robb and some others would continue south on the road, while Sansa, Theon, and the recruits would go north. All the men were courteous to the widow, and the women would give her encouraging looks, but did not interact with her. Sansa would learn of their companionship the further they got north, where class dwindled to mere titles and nothing more. Now, however, she spent most of her free time, off the horse, silently crying in her tent.

Ser Robb would check in on her, made sure she had eaten, and that the pace was to her liking. Then he would leave to attend to others. This day, however, he had given leave for Theon to take charge, while he tried to comfort the lady. "You are not happy." He remarks with his opening move on the cyvasse table, seated on the floor across from her.

She contemplates the board, moves the knight, and says, "I was never happy as a wife, and I doubt living on the Wall will be to my liking, but where can I go? My in-laws would never take me in, my childhood home is no more, and my family…dead. This is but a pain that is more manageable."

Robb moves one of his pieces, "The people at Mole's Town will take care of you. Val, at the Hearth, will make sure you're never in pain again."

"A whore." She moves her dragon. "What am I to do there? Service men? Cook? Clean? Sew? Some sort of servitude or other, that will mark the rest of my days till death."

He counters her move. "Val will not make you do anything you do not wish. You are under protection of the Night's Watch, and she's our greatest patron in the Gift. There's another lady, a lady Cersei. The only thing she offers is money management and childcare. More the former, but you get the idea. You won't be forced into anything."

There are a few more minutes of silence. When he looks up to make sure she hasn't spaced out, he sees she's crying again. He moves to wipe a tear away, and she flinches away. Robb's first instinct is to flee the tent and the crying woman, but he does want to comfort her, so he slowly walks around the table, sits next to her, and cradles her in his arms. Her silent tears become sobs and hiccups.

After a few minutes, she calms down again. Despite her aversion to touch, she finds his hug and back rubs comforting. "I'm afraid." She whispers.

"Don't be."

"I don't want to be in pain anymore."

"You won't. No one will hurt you at the Hearth, or at the Wall."

Her next sentence is so quiet, he's unsure if he's heard her correctly, but as sure as he is an honorable man, she said, "Show me."

He looks to her in surprise, but the shock turns to sympathy. He raises a hand to finger her cheek, wiping a tear away, before moving in to kiss her. It's sweet and tender, and he makes no move to gain entry into her mouth. She responds after a few pecks, and he moves his arms under her knees and neck, to raise her onto his lap, but not straddling him. Once there, he starts caressing her legs, over the material of her cotton skirt. Her breath hitches, but he continues to gently kiss her.

The arm behind her back does not move, a steady presence; his other arm snakes up her torso, and starts teasing a breast over her traveling dress. Again, she shudders, but remains resolutely in place. When her kisses get more fervent, he lowers his hand slowly, ghosting her whole body, all the way to her ankle, where the hem of her skirt lays.

She breaks from the kiss, but doesn't ask him to stop. They stare at each other, her with trust, and him with reassurance. His hand strokes her inner calf, then her inner thigh, her skirts bunching in the process, before he meets her small clothes. When he brushes her slit over the material, she sighs and rests her forehead against his, breaking eye contact when she closes hers.

He reaches to take off her small clothes, bringing it down to her knees, before coming back to her sex. It is not as wet as it could be, but he soon rectifies that by rubbing her bundle of nerves. He is awarded with a moan, and wetness seeping between her legs.

Leaving his thumb upon her button, he pushes his pointer finger into her snatch. Slow and gentle, it does nothing to cause Sansa pain or fear. Her breath on his neck quickens, almost in time with the thrusts of his finger. When he adds a second finger, she jumps slightly, but continues to make small moans. She's so quiet, Robb wonders if she ever made noise when Frey had his way with her. He recalls that she hadn't screamed once when she was thrown against furniture. It's not a new thought, but it still causes sympathy to flare up within his heart.

By the time he's thrusting into her with three fingers, she's moving her hips along with him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders for a better purchase. A few more thrusts of the fingers and rubbing of the bundle of nerves, she's groaning her climatic pleasure, shuddering in his arms.

She opens her eyes after a few seconds, to watch him as he removes his fingers, only to taste them himself. It's an erotic sight, but it embarrasses her. "My husband has never been gentle with me, or done anything for me like that. He would always wash me off him afterwards."

Robb frowns, then pecks her on the lips, saying "Don't accept anything but pleasure for you, from now on."

She nods, though she knows it's easier said then done. He fixes her clothing, and then carries her to her furs. As he turns to leave, she asks, in surprise, "What about you? Don't you need release?" for she could feel his hardness under her.

"This wasn't about me," replies Robb, "It was about you. I'll be fine. Sleep well, my lady." They both smile before he takes her leave.

And sleep well she does, for the first time in many moons.

**Post Script: This was written after Sansa's other chapters, which are more explicit then this one (she's one of the main arcs in this series): an intro chapter for Sansa, rather then a smut-fic. I have a hard time seeing Sansa at a brothel, so this was an explanation of how she ends up at the Hearth, though even I feel my explanation, and the whole story, is flimsy. But that's fanfiction for you! :p Let me know what you think, please!**


	3. Brandon the ElderCatelyn:CatelynEddard

**Author's Notes: I suppose I should have mentioned in the previous chapter, but unless stated (like in this chapter), no characters are related in this universe. I didn't want to have to deal with incestuous drama, so I won't. I'll leave that for other creative writers.  
**

BRANDON THE ELDER AND CATELYN

Brandon had taken many spear wives over his short life. His first was fellow clan member, Barbrey, whom he knew liked him, so it was easy to take her as his own. Even at a young age, he had proved to be quite the warrior, with a lean and dangerous body that most wildlings envied or wanted. The two had lost their innocence to each other, both around four and ten, and she was enamored with him because of it. It was mere lust to Brandon, however, and he had not mourned her frozen death, as much as he suppose he ought to have. Following her came a string of nameless fucks that were mostly a one-time deal.

By the time he was a young man of eight and ten, he had been through the gates of the wall at least three times; it open to his kind these past twenty or so years by the Old Bear Commander. The last time, he had espied a southern lady, and took her. Brandon's new "wife's" name was Catelyn Tully, and struggled like a cat with a dog complex, but he eventually had her. Her warmth, beauty, and manners were so different from the spear wives, that he had been attracted and wanted it, even though he'd only met her for a few hours in Mole's Town.

After Bran and Cat made it back to his father's clan, they became involved in a triangle of sorts. Bran's younger brother, Eddard, also became enamored with the southern beauty, but said nothing. However, it was beneficial to Brandon, because while he was fucking the lady, Eddard was treating with Cat's father, and with the Commander of the Watch, promising them both Catelyn's health and prosperity.

It was out of those talks that prompted both men to go south of the Wall. Eddard took the black, and Brandon built Catelyn a home in Mole's Town. Brandon even went through a ceremony to wed the woman, standing under a Weirwood and making promises, southron style. He did not want to keep them, but his father and brother would have his hide should he break his oaths.

There was comfort in Catelyn that Brandon did not expect, however. She always wore her armor of courtesy and manners, so she always knew what to say to appease him. He knew it for what it was, but over time he could tell that she was warming up to his ways. Thus she always spoke her mind and counsel, but never in a way that insulted him.

She grew to like touching him. Most women he interacted with liked to fuck him, not caress him. She would hold his hand when walking. She would stroke his jaw, his cheek, his neck, when she wanted to comfort him while her words were admonishing him. When they were naked on bed before or after sex, she liked to massage his back. His shoulders would get messaged when he was sitting at his desk or eating at the table.

But he really liked bedding her too. Spear wives were wild and crazy, fun in the sack, but Catelyn was demure and ladylike. It would amuse Brandon to wake the wolf inside her, to hear her scream and thrash and push him back. It would touch his heart when she wanted gentle sex, and it would inflame him head to toe when she would initiate the act, instead of the other way around.

They made a baby together, but Brandon the Elder would never know Brandon the Younger.

Brandon promised Catelyn he'd come back. He was hugging her naked and pregnant form from behind, easing himself in and out of her. It was the most gentle he'd ever been, tortuously slow, and she was trying to make him go faster by bucking back into him. But he wouldn't let her, his hands on her belly and around her shoulders guiding her. She held his arm against her, crying and mewling. "I promise," he whispered against her ear, before inhaling the scent of her red hair he loved so much.

When she gave up trying to go faster, he brought a hand to her sensitive breast, and the other to her sex. It was like touching hot coals she jolted so violently. A few more thrusts and caresses, and she was climaxing. He followed a second later.

After he lowered both of them to the bed, spooning her from behind, he again promised a speedy return from ranging beyond the wall with his brother. Ned wouldn't let anything happen to him, anyway.

Ned barely came back alive to tell how wolves had attacked them, how he (and a few others) had managed to survive and Brandon didn't.

EDDARD AND CATELYN

One minute he was sharing stories of his childhood with her, the next they were kissing as if their lives depended on it. It took two years to get to this moment, two years of tension, survivor's guilt, anger, and the attention of Brandon's baby, before Ned and Cat acknowledged that what they both needed was each other.

He was greyer then Brandon's browns and blacks, but his kisses were the same. Brandon was leaner, but Ned's hands were as insistent as his brother's, as he pushed Cat to sit on the table. When he stood between her legs, his manhood was different, but it sparked the same lust within her.

Ned kissed her more then his brother ever did, but Cat could not differentiate between the two while she was ripping off his jerkin and tunic. She took it upon herself to unlace her bodice while Ned raised her skirts about her waist, calloused hands ghosting along her legs as Brandon used to do.

She broke their kisses, bringing his head down to her now bared breasts. One of his hands had slipped into her, his thumb circling her bundle of nerves, while the other fingers worked slowly in and out of her. When she started to grind back onto his hand, he took it away, much to her protests.

He moved to kiss her lips, before unlacing his breeches. Cat took the initiative to grab his member, to stroke it a few times, bringing them both closer to each other. Ned calmly stroked her arms, to soothe her when she didn't need to be soothed (or so she thought). She looked to his eyes, and saw nothing but love. There was lust in the air, but his love for her was stronger then Brandon's had been. In that moment, Brandon left her mind and only Eddard surrounded her.

Eddard saw her love for him blossom in that moment, and he would never forget that day and hour. As his hands moved to her ass, he moved in to kiss her lips, yet again. He then thrust into her, and she gasped into his mouth.

After a few thrusts, Cat moves to hug Ned to her, and their pace picks up. A series of grunts and groans follow, and they know the end is coming when their hands violently grab at each other. Her ass will be bruised, and his back will bleed, but it is nothing to the bliss that occurs, that flows through him and her, and cements their relationship. A few moons later, Rickon would be born.

They want nothing but to stay where they are, but Brandon the Younger interrupts their moment by waking up from his nap and asking for lunch.

**Post Script: I don't want to beg, but... reviews? Comments? Pretty please? I'm not gonna stop writing or anything, just... stroke my ego or give criticism, but I gotta know!**


	4. Arya and Edric

**Author's Note: I fully admit, this might be my weakest chapter. Mostly an intro to Gendry and Arya, as they have one of the main arcs (Sansa and her unknown final lover is the other main arc), and they don't even kiss.**

**But, hey, maybe some readers will like it?**

GENDRY AND ARYA

They were both crows on he wall, but have not met until now. Arya lived at Castle Black; Gendry was at Eastwatch by the Sea, a captain of a warship (The Stubborn Crow). Gendry was visiting Castle Black, to make a personal report and to vacation at the Hearth. Arya was a captain of a ranging group (She-Wolf squadron, an all-female group), and she went to the Hearth at least once weekly when south of the wall.

The two crows were waiting for available companions, when they struck up a conversation. They were immediately smitten with each other, and proved it by throwing insults both ways. 'Who was this stupid bull crow to call her a small lady? And a poorly dressed one at that!' Thought Arya. 'Who was this lovely creature with a mouth and a liking for bawdy japes? With a sword and dirk upon her belted breeches, no less!' Thought Gendry.

"Pain in my arse; is your sharp tongue trying to make up for your dull blade?"

"At least I have a fine cloak. What is that, a salty fish on your back?"

"Wolf Bitch."

"Bull Ass."

Then they smiled at each other.

Before they trade more japes, Val tells Arya there's a room ready for her.

She stands, before turning to the blue-eyed, raven-locked man, "Next time you come west, be sure to let me know by raven. I'll give you a tour of whole of Castle Black, get you outside the Commander's solar." He nods.

EDRIC AND ARYA

There was nowhere else to go. His eldest aunt committed suicide, his uncle died in battle, and the other Aunt left was playing politics, as she stood to inherit the house; completely ignoring him in the process. He knew not even his own parents. So when Edric left home for adventure with his Aunt's betrothed, and they had arrived at Castle Black as guests, he felt that the Wall was a far as one could go before turning warm again, so he stayed.

Edric even found love on the Wall, though it was not reciprocated. He never told the woman that he loved her, but he felt relieved, somewhat, that she would come to him regularly. He liked to think that there was something about him that drew her to him, more then anyone else. A little songlike and unrealistic, but that was his lot.

She really has no need of love at the Hearth, but of tenderness. The men on the wall were rather harsh in their fucking (which she liked, too), and she just wanted a change of pace. It wasn't uncommon for the crows to fuck each other rather then go to the Hearth, especially since the Hearth had only been recently built; they'd been "doing it" since Jeor approved female crows. It also was inconvenient unless one lived at Castle Black or Oakenshield.

But, he loved her all the same. All that heat he grew up with, and it did little to excite reactions from him or anyone else he knew, mostly droll and proper. But, the further north he traveled, the more bawdy, brave, or fun, people became. Maybe because they had to generate their own heat, were they more alive then those in the dead of the desert. In any case, her warmth opened his heart to things he never thought he would have enjoyed.

He never thought, for instance, that drunken sex would be so hot. First, she'd out drink him, then she'd giggle like a Bravossi Monkey and pounce on him, ripping clothes left and right, not caring whether they were fine clothes or not. And when she used her mouth on his cock, like he was taught was unladylike and shouldn't expect his wife (or lover) to do, he'd moan at her thoroughly brazen act, her warm mouth, and her wet tongue.

She'd go so far as to make him cum into her mouth, and then she'd kiss him. Alcohol and his cum would be in her mouth, and he'd relish it. Then he would have fun undressing her, kissing every inch of skin exposed, even her cunt, which some prat in the desert said was not worth tasting, but Edric disagreed. If he ever left Val's employ to go home, he'd punch some sense into his friend, who probably wouldn't be his friend anymore.

She would taste divine: a little musky, a little sweaty (she was a warrior after all), and definitely a contrast to the ale from earlier. A lot headier then the summer wines from home, true enough. He'd lap her up like an oasis going dry when she came for him, and then he'd return the previous kiss, her tasting her own juices mixed with ale.

Next, the caresses would commence. He'd map her body, from head to toe, and everything in between. By the time he was tweaking her breasts, she'd be begging him to take her, in not so many words. A sand snake would take, never beg, and Edric thinks he'd never like a woman who didn't communicate her wants, just expected it. Or a woman who just did the duty, but didn't have fun with it.

He'd smirk at her, and she'd whine at him. Teasing her was more fun than it should have been, but he so loved to see her growl at him. When he did finally enter her, her growls became moans, her face an image of pure bliss.

She'd arch her back, offering up her breasts, and who was he to deny her, and himself? Most of their coupling would end with his head in her breasts, both their arms around each other, her head touching his. A few thrusts, and their peak would have them crashing to the sheets.

He worshipped her body, and she gave him pleasure for his sacrifices to her. But it was never enough; she'd be gone by the morning.

**Post Script: Two very lovely reviews by guests, THANKS! One especially made me extra proud of the Bran/Cat/Ned chapter. Thanks to all who favored and/or are following. **


	5. Sansa and Maester Tyrion

**Author's Note: A chapter that explains how Sansa signs up to be a whore. I really like how this chapter came out, myself; I hope you readers do too! Also, Tyrion is my favorite character in the "real" series, and I really hope I do him some justice, more so then with the other characters.**

**Without further ado...**

SANSA AND MAESTER TYRION

Sansa had been at the Hearth for a few moons now. She knew nothing but kindness from the proprietress, Val, and the other "ladies" at the establishment. She even made a few friends, like fellow redheads Ygritte and Ros, and fellow former southerners, like Jeyne Poole. They had given her comfort, happiness, and a new appreciation for life. If not making her blush constantly (as per Ygritte's stories), they had broken down her high walls, and Sansa realized the more simple rules of the Old Gods were worth embracing, instead of the complicated, man-made rules that were worth next to nothing. In it's most basic form, all men and women were equal, and love was worth seeking, not restraining.

Getting comfortable around men was a different story, however. After a moon or so, she found herself entertaining guests in the common room; reading with or for them, playing cyvasse, singing, playing the harp, or any number of things that didn't involve intimacy. Some of the men scoffed at her, wanting only physical fulfillment, not intellectual ones, from a whore. There were a few, though, that proved Ser Robb correct, not all men were cruel.

Theon, who helped escort her to the Hearth from the Riverlands, would check in on her now and then. He didn't want what she offered, but asked for her physically, but Sansa though him kind to inquire after her and forgave his crude nature. He did, after all, gift her with strings for the worn harp.

A scarred wildling crow, by the name of Sandor, liked to hear her sing. He was rough with his speech, never seemed to smile, and had a violent reputation: but after her initial fear of him, she realized him to be an honorable man. He'd always stare at her, but other then beg for a kiss, he never made her uncomfortable.

Even the Lord Commander of the Watch, Jon Snow, would ask for her, the rare visits he was able to get. He would always ask for Ygritte to bed, but then he'd ask for Sansa while he waited. He did not look at her with longing, like most all the men did, but seemed (like Ser Robb) to genuinely care about her health. He alone would ask her to tell her stories. He told her about his childhood as a bastard of a lord, and then she'd tell him the latest stories written by the bards. When it was time for him to go, he'd bow to her, and refuse her bow in return, saying she deserved more then what they had to offer her.

After a few more moons of this, Sansa felt it was time to pull more of her weight at the Hearth. Val, rightly so, thought it was out of some sense of guilt on Sansa's part, of taking advantage of the Hearth's hospitality. Sansa had to convince her, over a few more moons, that the case was more on the lines of needing to prove that she would not be ruled by her past, and she wanted to thank Val (and the Wall) for helping her, both reasons which were also true.

When Sansa finally convinced Val to let her sell her body, Val asked her whom she had in mind, who she felt comfortable enough to sell herself to first. Usually, the men chose, but in Sansa's case, things had to be dealt with carefully.

That's how she found herself, a few days later, having her back massaged by Maester Tyrion, who was kneeling beside her prone body. He was everything her late husband was not; stunted, ugly, orphaned, of no social consequence… intelligent, kind, witty, funny, sympathetic, considerate, courteous, truthful, honorable, and a hell of a cyvasse player.

Maester Tryion wouldn't touch her at first, truly had enjoyed her for her company. Sansa had to bet, and then win, a cyvasse game before she convinced him to bed her. Val even gave him a discount for the event.

He continued to exhibit gallantry, by offering her a back massage when he came to her the next night. Her nerves had been high, he could tell, and the more he gently rubbed her shoulders, neck, and back, the more he felt her relax. When he heard her sigh, and saw her close her eyes, he leaned down to kiss the back of her neck.

Her hum of contentment emboldened them both. Tryrion started to gently untie the laces on her back, and Sansa willed away her fears.

The laces of this particular dress went from neck to butt, so with every tie undone, Tyrion leaned down and kissed the skin newly presented to him. After the last tie was done away with, he again uses his hands, gently caressing her back, and moving away the dress.

When he can move the fabric no more, he leans back, and starts to untie his black leather doublet (a gift from Lord Snow). Sansa turns her head, opening her eyes to see what he is doing. After his doublet falls to the floor, and his black shirt was following, she moves to turn around, pushing her dress down to her waist in the process. Tyrion moves to help take the dress off completely.

Still in his black breeches, he goes to kneel between her legs. He starts massaging Sansa again, this time her stomach and breasts. Inadvertently, but no less pleasantly, his hard cock also starts to massage her, rubbing up against her lower lips.

Sansa again sighs, closing her eyes. Lost in the good sensations she hasn't felt since Robb (or even before him), she experimentally shifts her hips, rubbing him back, and is rewarded by Tyrion's groan of pleasure.

When the front of his breeches are straining and wet beyond tolerance, Tyrion places his hands on Sansa's hips, stilling them. When she opens her eyes to him, he then starts to unlace his breeches. As his cock springs free, he's gratified to see a blush form on her pretty face.

Sansa really didn't know what to expect from a dwarf, but his cock is "normal" sized. And, she's embarrassed to think, bigger then her late unlamented husband's. Her eyes rake up his moderately defined torso, to his face, which is sporting a kind smile. She smiles back, and he slowly enters her.

Her mouth opens in silent wonder, her eyes shutting again. He marvels at her innocence in the situation. It's almost like she was a virgin. She might as well have been, never having sex pleasurably before. He goes as gently as he can, and is surprised to find hat he enjoys it as well.

After a few thrusts, she starts meeting him with her hips, and bites her lower lip in obvious rapture. He would have her scream in ecstasy, but that is something she will have to overcome in her own time. He is more then making up for the silence, grunting at each thrust.

Subtly, almost unbeknownst to both, they go faster. She arches her back, and he grasps at her breasts, kneading them some more. He feels a lurch in his heart when her hands grab his, body begging him not to stop, and he hears a slight hic come out of her mouth now, as he slams into her.

He can feel his climax coming. He's unsure how far she is, so he brings one of his hands down to her sex, seeking and rubbing her bundle of nerves. Her eyes shoot open, and then she's coming, mouth open again in silent wonder.

A second later, so is he, though he is more vocal about it.

Coming down from the blissful high, he slumps down onto her, his head upon the pillow of her breasts. He hears her heartbeat go from fast to slow, and knows she does not regret it. He smiles when he feels her arms hesitantly go around him, hugging him to her.

They do not love each other, but it's a rather loving gift that they share.

**Post Script: Just a hint for future chapters... These two do not end up together in this story. Also, review, pretty please?**


	6. Gendry and Jeyne Heddle

**Author's Notes: Since the next two chapters are shorter then the previous ones, I've decided to deviate from my one chapter a week, and post two this week. My real reason? I couldn't wait to post them, they've been written for a while now. The next chapter will follow on Friday. Also, these two chapters are less romantic. **

GENDRY AND JEYNE HEDDLE

This girl reminds him of Arya, a little bit. As a matter of fact, there were three women at the Hearth that reminded him of Arya: this Jeyne, Jeyne Poole, and Alys; all closer in age to him, then the she-wolf. Arya, however, was the only one with muscles, the only one who liked to talk about missions, fighting, or politics, the only one who could inflame his anger and interest at the very same time, and the only one with eyes of steel, rather then brown. But for now, the only thing his cock was interested in was fucking.

He had tried to get in touch with Arya again, to meet up like they had once before to walk the walls and corridors of Castle Black. He had enjoyed their time together. He had thought to get her to show him her direwolf, like she promised, and maybe her body too. Anyway, for Gendry, it had been a long time at sea, a man had needs, and Arya, he knew, was more then willing.

But she was out ranging; they would not cross paths this time. Jeyne was here, on her bed, still naked from her previous customer. She lay on her back with her legs open, her doe brown eyes staring at him with lust. He knew this Jeyne wanted him for herself, somehow coming to prefer him to others, when they haven't even lain together yet. But he knew his looks would do that to some women.

He starts to undress, and stalk closer to her. Impatient to start, Jeyne slowly masturbates while watching him undress. One hand goes to a breast, and the other starts to circle and rub her clit. The scene, and her moans, encourage him to undress faster, and she's so ready for him, that when he slips into her, she cries out and clamps around him.

He groans in the heat and the grip of her snatch, and he grabs her thighs harshly in retaliation. Her breasts rise and fall with her post orgasmic breathlessness, and he's drawn to swallow one in his mouth, his other hand squeezing the other. It takes a few licks and squeezes, but Jeyne becomes ready again.

Her arms snake around his back, and her hips grind against him, showing how ready she is. So he comes out of her, only to thrust back in, causing a scream to come from her mouth. He looks at her in mild amusement, raising him self from her chest. Smiling back, she asks why he stopped.

"Excuse me." He quips, before obliging her, starting to thrust again. The pace is slow, at first, but quite enjoyable. "Faster!" she screams, so he starts to piston into her, bruising her thighs where his hands have made their home.

Each thrust is met with a loud "ugh!" from her, and Gendry just can't stop smiling; never has he met a louder whore. Her breasts bounce at each entry, and her body has taken on such a nice red blush, that Gendry wants to explore it. Releasing her thighs, he moves to run his hands all over her torso, causing her to moan and scream in enjoyment.

Feeling himself nearing completion, he leans down to bite on her shoulder as he thrusts once, twice, thrice more, and climaxes. His seed signals her own end, and she clamps his dick yet again, eliciting a final scream from her open mouth.

As she comes down from her high, she sees he's smiling at her. A devilishly crooked one; she moves to kiss him. He lips meet stubble, however, and his once roguish smile his gone.

In about two minutes, after putting on most of his clothes, his whole presence is gone.

**Post Script: Ouch. Looking over my other Gendry chapters, I realized I kinda made him out of character, putting more pirate into him then smith, he might as well be Theon or Victarion or some Iron Born guy. Oh well, I kind of like the variation. I've noticed on my profile that, despite the lack of reviews, people are reading. I'm honored, and I thank you. :) For that, I'll continue writing till my profile tells me no one is reading this story.**


	7. Sansa and Joffrey

**Author's Notes: Just to share some nonsense, it was the first Sansa chapter written, but obviously not the first posted. I've been impatient to post it, but it's a good thing I took time; I had the chance to change things, and edit others, to keep it in line with previous chapters. Also, I do not condone Joffrey, or rape of any kind; there is no grey area.**

**WARNING: RAPE CHAPTER. **

SANSA AND JOFFREY

He was handsome, but so had been her husband. Ser Joffrey, accidental Commander of Oakenshild, seemed put out that she didn't simper or blush in his presence. She heard from Ros that Joffrey liked to be rough, and she thought she had prepared for it. It couldn't be worse than her husband had been, could it? But yes, yes it was much worse. He was exactly like her abusive husband; made worse by the fact that she had been doing so well moving away from the past, and he brought her back.

It started out fine, with small kisses and roaming hands. But then he bit her neck (not at all a turn on to her), and held her a little more strongly then was necessary. Trying to placate him, she placed a hand on his cheek, "Please, you're hurting me." That had been the wrong thing to say. He grabbed her wrist in a vise grip, "You're here to please me, not the other way around, whore!" and he trips her to the floor, not one foot away from the bed.

She whimpers, tears falling down her face, ugly memories coming to the surface once more. She's unable to bring herself to stop this rape, as she'd promise Ser Robb she would. Her tears and fear seems to please Joffrey, smiling as he unlaces his breeches.

She tries to scoot away, but her body hurts from her fall, and she doesn't get very far. He grabs her ankle, drags her closer to him, and slaps her hard. Nothing escapes her lips but a gasp, blood welling from her lips, and tears flowing freely. She has the nerve to bring a hand to her face, to look at him reproachfully, so he slaps her again, harder. This time she does not look back.

Enjoying her pain and fear, he leers at her; lightly beating his cock with his own hand, every now and then spitting into it, knowing that Sansa will not be wet.

Feeling himself getting close, he rips off her gown; one she brought from her previous home, and roughly shoves into her. Her body remembers, is used to it, but still it brings no pleasure. She is a broken woman who needs tenderness, not roughness. She lies there, refusing to participate, but Joffrey likes his women beaten. He thrusts into her over and over again, bruising her breasts with rough hands, biting her collarbones, asking her if she likes it, whore that she is. She doesn't reply, but no answer is required. Each pump brings fresh tears to her waxen face, but no vocal cries come.

After he spills in her, he laughs in her face. "Pathetic. Maybe I ought to get my man, Gregor, on you." She has no idea who "Gregor" is, and she has a feeling she doesn't want to know.

As he leaves, she sees Sandor, Joffrey's second in command, through the doorway. His face is impassive, as always, as he stares at her, but she does nothing to cover herself, or move from the floor. He comes in, and lifts her from the floor in his arms, despite the fear still present in her eyes, though Sandor has been nothing but kind to her.

"Seven hells girl," Sandor whispers to her, "scream, yell, protest; call for me next time." He then gently places her on the bed, bringing up a sheet over her nakedness. He moves to wipe a tear from a cheek, before Joffrey yells, "Hound, to me!" He leaves her, both wishing he could stay.

**Post Script: Whew. Glad that's done with. Teaser: Joffrey will get his due, it'll just take a few tries to get there, is all. Teaser #2: Sansa will be happy again, eventually. **


	8. Myrcella : Jamie and Brienne

MYCELLA: JAMIE AND BRIENNE

There's giggling in the spas, and it draws Myrcella's attention because she recognizes her father's voice. Opening the door quietly, she's shocked to see Ser (lady?) Brienne in his arms, her back against the wooden edge of the tub, and she's smiling. She never smiles brightly, only grins or smirks. Myrcella decides she likes the smile on the lady's (ser's?) face; it brings out a beautiful quality that just couldn't be explained by a nine year old.

Brienne and Myrcella's father were friends, though, had been partners of the wall; what were they doing naked together in the spas? Myrcella watches fascinated, as they seem to be undulating up and down against the edge, moaning and giggling, kissing and hugging. She will have to ask her mother, she thinks, if she wants answers. Then she thinks she'd rather stay curious a while longer, because she knows her mother hates Ser Brienne, though she knows not why.

A loud splash brings her back to the present; Brienne has just pushed her father away, a large laugh breaking from her lips. He laughs in turn, raising his hands in mock surrender, and she can see the reason he left the wall to stay at the Hearth, his handless hand. He doesn't service any women other then Myrcella's mother, as far as Myrcella knows, but stays there for his bastard children, who live there as well.

Myrcella likes Brienne, despite the taunts of her ugliness. She's glad to see her father stroke Brienne's scarred cheek as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Brienne deserves it for putting up with slurs from both men and women; she's so kind to her and her brother, Tommen, and a perfectly honorable knight (if only she would smile more often!)

They move in to kiss again, and now it's her father's turn to have his back to the tub's edge. She sees both her father's arms snake around Brienne's back, caressing her, causing Brienne to moan. At that point, Myrcella decides to leave, starting to get an inkling of what's going on and feeling like she was intruding on a special moment.

Myrcella is unable to turn away when she catches them in Mole's Town, after a few name days have come and gone. Taking a shortcut behind the apothecary and fabric stores, she finds her father and Ser Brienne kissing in the relative privacy of the trees. Enchanted rather then embarrassed, Myrcella (unaware that she was doing it) moves to hide behind the stack of firewood also in the area.

Of course Myrcella has heard the moans of patrons, the creaks and groans of furniture and floors, and saw a little bit in the spas, but she has never known what was really is involved. Her mother, Cersei, forbade anyone from exposing her to such acts.

The smiles on her father's and Brienne's faces are beautiful, and Myrcella wonders why anyone would wish to keep children in the dark. Her friends may have plans to take the black, or go south; but as far as Myrcella is concerned, she wants to stay where she's grown up, the only place she's ever known. Her mother would rather her marry, and marry well, but wanting to force her daughter had made Myrcella rebellious.

By now, her father had started to take off his clothes. Myrcella blushes, knowing only lovers should see each other's nakedness, but still she doesn't turn away. He places his face next to Brienne's whispering something into her ear. Brienne blushes, something Myrcella was unaware the maiden warrior (another unfair name others called her) could do, and starts to unlace her own breeches.

They keep whispering to each other, as they take off the rest of their clothes. Every now and then, one or both will laugh. As much as Myrcella does not know about coupling, she knows most patrons do not laugh as much as these two do. It's a nice change, and she thinks she likes the idea that sex is different for different people, that there's no strict format or style to adhere to.

Her father's stumped hand goes behind Brienne's back, pushing them closer together, and Brienne's hands grasp at his ass. They're kissing again, this time with moans. Father pushes Brienne towards the closest tree, her bare back receiving plenty of scratches in the process. Not caring in the least, it seems, Brienne only moves her hands to her father's shoulders, and lifts a leg around her father's hip.

It's at this moment that Myrcella really notices Brienne's muscular form. The leg was buff and well defined, as were her arms, sleek and beautiful. Moving to her chest and abs, however, Myrcella, only a maid of two and ten, feels guilty pleasure at the fact that her breasts are not as small as Brienne's, which are mere points, and that her stomach is smooth, whereas Brienne's looks like it would be bumpy and uncomfortable to touch for a man.

There is a downfall to noticing Brienne's leg, however, and it's the fact that it's in the way of viewing her father's cock. Admiring Brienne's body, she misses the moment when her father guides himself into his friend. For friends they still are. Other then the time in the spas, Myrcella has not seen the two in such an act, and neither have they made their affair known to others.

After a pump or two, her father's hands go under Brienne's thighs, her having jumped slightly to wrap both legs around him. Leaning Brienne again against the tree, he thrusts into her with a quick pace.

Brienne breaks the kisses to lean her head back, gasps falling out of her lips, her eyes closed in bliss. Her father places his head in the crook of her neck, but Myrcella cannot tell if he's biting, whispering, or sniffing her. Myrcella notices that her own breath has hitched, and though her moon blood has not come yet, there is such a degree of want in her, that she can't help but wonder what it would be like to be kissed, or more.

It's barely a thought in her head, kissing, when her father groans rather loudly, stilling against Brienne, who, not a second later, also makes a loud noise. Something between a moan and a scream. It sounds wonderful, though, and Myrcella is happy for them.

Myrcella loves her mother and her father, but not when they are together. There is an undercurrent of tensions, regrets, and resignation. She has never seen her mother look at her father with adoration or respect, like Ser Brienne does whenever they're in the same room. She has never seen her father stroke her mother's cheek, or give her searing kisses, as she's seen him do for Brienne in their hookups.

Unable to tear her view from the previous carnal act, Myrcella is, however, able to turn away from the tender way they dress each other, handing each other their swords, etc., that commence as they move away from the tree.

On her way home to the Hearth, Myrcella picks up wild flowers, being sure to pick some of her mother's favorite red ones to add to the bouquet.

**DVD Extras: For me, it's hard to write Brienne and Jamie. So much of their relationship is based on banter and dialogue: I hate writing dialogue and I couldn't come up with many jokes for them to share, so... third person POV it is! Besides, I wanted to try it out, the peeping tom view... Hope you liked, and thanks for reading! **


	9. Gendry and Arya

GENDRY AND ARYA

They finally had time to meet up. And as previously planned, they would meet the direwolves of Castle Black. There were direwolves all along the wall, except for Eastwatch and Westwatch, both barren of forests that the wolves loved. Since Gendry lived on the sea and at Eastwatch, he had never seen one up close.

Castle Black boasted five wolves, with a sixth one at the Hearth. Apparently, once injured and nursed to health by the companions, the direwolf, named "Lady", made it's new home there.

Arya showed him her wolf first, Nymeria, the only female currently in residence. "She must be fought over constantly." Jokes Gendry.

"Yeah. And we're linked through our minds. Maester Samwell says that's the reason I'm so… promiscuous."

"Really?" His eyes take on a suggestive gleam.

"Yes." She ignores his eyes for the moment. "And here's Ghost." She directs his attention to a white wolf with red eyes. "He usually mounts Nymeria the most." She continues to show him the others (Summer, Shaggydog, and Grey Wind), before Nymeria actually starts to whine in heat.

Gendry laughs at the irony, before noticing that Arya is staring at him with lust. As the four male beasts start sniffing the female and snarling at each other, Arya drags him to the bales of hay surrounding the wolves' den.

He can hear that it's down to too males (the white one and the black one, damned if he could think straight and remember their names), when Arya turns away from him, takes off her cloak, lowers her breeches and weapons to her ankles, and bends over a block of hay.

And, really, who was she to demand sex without romancing him? He chuckles; he had set out to woo her into fucking, and here she is, making it practically happen for him! She looks over her shoulder, making sure he'd do it, whining and whimpering along with Nymeria, that Gendry wonders if it's more wolf or woman that he's going to oblige, but who cares? He starts to unlace his breeches, noticing her stare go to his groin in appreciation.

He grabs her ass, caressing the flesh, and she bumps backwards, to get him in, and he just pulls back, tut-tut ting, teasing her. Her whines increase, but Gendry is watching Ghost and Shaggydog (he remembered them finally) growling and snarling still. He, perversely, wants to know whom he's representing as surely as Arya is representing Nymeria.

In the back of his mind, he recalls that Ghost is the alpha, but somehow Ghost is backing away from Shaggydog at the moment. Gendry doesn't know much about direwolves, and he wonders if Ghost is just not interested in sex now, or if he's being nice to Shaggydog, but whatever the reason, Shaggydog takes his place behind Nymeria, paws on her back and thrusts into her. Taking the cue, Gendry pushes into Arya.

Both wolf and woman howl in appreciation. Shaggydog is going so fast, he's a blur, that Gendry gets a complex. But Arya doesn't complain. Far from it, if her pants were any indication. She bucks back to meet him every time, their pace fast and furious. Her ass will have bruises from his hands, as surely as Nymeria will suffer scratches from Shaggy. He groans at her tightness, her wetness, and hunches over her back, wishing they could be naked and he could lick her back, reach around to grab at her breasts, but never mind, his cock is deliciously happy.

He closes his eyes, nearing his peak, and when she clamps down on him, howling in completing, and thrusts once more into the vice, and spills his own completion.

Later, as they're lying in the hay, sated with breeches tied again, Gendry comments that it wasn't how he thought it would go.

"What do you mean?" asks Arya.

"Don't get me wrong, that was beyond amazing. You should know, however, that I had planned to romance you into nakedness and having my way with you."

She giggles. "That's what you get for thinking to woo me, the wolf-bitch."

He agrees. "But I wouldn't have it any other way. I like that you're not… like other women. I've ranged across the world in my black ship, and in the ships before I was a crow, and you're the first woman to ever _demand_ sex from me." They laugh.

As the laughter dies down, and their smiles become relaxed in the silence, Arya leans to kiss him. She meets stubble instead.

He moves to get up, but Nymeria is there, licking his face. He laughs, but Arya does not join him. "Why?"

He grows serious, relaxing against the hay again. "I was a pirate, and a bastard besides. I was once a cruel bastard, too, but my lust for pain has since subsided. The only reason I wear the black is because I got caught. Pirates don't kiss, that plunder isn't for us. Call it one of the rare pirate code rules."

"Well, as the only woman to have had her way with you, I demand that you kiss me." He stares at her for a few moments, lowers his eyes to her lips, red and ripe for plundering, before taking his leave of her and the wolves.


	10. Osha and Rickon

**Author's Notes: Since the previous chapter, and this chapter, are both short, I thought I'd post this one now instead of a week later. Plus, this one is kinda a parallel chapter to the previous one. Hope you enjoy!**

RICKON AND OSHA

Just as Ghost stepped aside for Shaggydog, Rickon felt a twitch in his groin. He groaned as a wave of lust inexplicably coursed through his veins. A lad of three and ten, he had yet to "become a man". This, however, was a most inconvenient time since he was learning to man the wall.

As his penis hardened to the point of pain, he fell to his knees and moaned quite loudly. His mentors on the wall came to him in worry. "What's wrong?" asked Grenn, their leader for the day.

"It hurts!" was all Rickon could offer. It was more surprising then painful, but how does one put that into words in such a situation?

"Right." Grenn said in pseudo authority, " Pyp, take him down the winch to see the maester."

"No." interrupted the only woman on the Wall that day. "I'll take him down." The men had a healthy fear of the wildling woman, turned crow, so Grenn nods his approval.

The woman was named Osha, and she had noticed where Rickon's hands had gone, what is agony was. She was surprised the others did not notice, but it was probably the view they had of the boy: an innocent who had more of a fighting streak then any inclination to notice women.

As they got into the winch, she asked, "You're in lust, aren't you?"

He just nodded. Osha moved his hands from his groin and started unlacing them. In the relative privacy of the winch, she went down to her knees and brought out his penis. He didn't protest, too far gone to question.

As Osha licks the head, and fondles his balls, Rickon grabs the back of her head. She gets a few licks up and down, before the wolf gets restless, and he uses both hands on her head to shove himself down her throat. She starts to gag, but recovers quickly, loosening her throat and grabbing his butt for purchase.

He's in and out of her mouth as if it were her cunt, not her mouth, but neither seemed to care. Osha doesn't even feel any desire herself, her pussy staying dry as if she were licking a brother's dick (a brother she doesn't have); she only wants to help her charge, her friend.

They're halfway down the wall when he releases into her mouth. The taste is the first thing that surprises Osha out of the whole ordeal, salty and a bit musky, and definitely more delicious then other men she's had. She wonders if it's the wolf aspect. If Rickon had more staying power, she might have started to get curiously wet.

After letting go of Osha's head, Rickon slides to the floor of the winch, not bothering with his pants. Osha sits next to him, shoulder to his shoulder, and says that she hoped it felt good, because her head and throat would be sore for the rest of the day.

"Why did that happen?" Rickon wanted to know.

"Because your wolf was getting some."

"But, he's done that before, and I didn't have this problem."

"It's your age, you're old enough I guess. Something in your body just… turned on or something." It was the only explanation Osha could give.

Rickon turns to her. "I'm sorry, Osha, but thank you."

She smiles at him. She had known him since he was a babe at Mole's Town. She was not old enough to be his mother, at only two and twenty, but she had many fond memories of watching over him when his parents came north of the Wall to visit. Though roughly five years younger then his own mother, Osha had been seen as a second mother, for Rickon as well as Bran (the younger).

It annoyed her at first, mostly for the jeers of "mother hen", even as she loved them anyway; how she wanted to maintain an air of fear and toughness, but he and Bran wore her down over time.

Remembering how little Rickon even followed her to the Wall only one name day past; she rumples his hair, fixes his laces, and gives him a peck on the lips before the winch finally reached the bottom of the Wall.


	11. Barristan The Bold Selmy and Missandei

**Author's Notes: Well this is awkward. Longest... Chapter... Yet. This more or less cropped up from one little, tiny, scene in "Dance with Dragons", where they interact so nicely, I'm like "aw...". Of course, I doubt GRRM intends anything, but their pairing wouldn't leave me alone, and I didn't resist too much. Hope you enjoy! **

**WARNING: Sex between young teen, and a fifty-ish old man. **

BARRISTAN "THE BOLD" SELMY AND MISSANDEI

He had been at the Hearth plenty of times, but had never lain with a companion. The Hearth was more then a brothel, it served as an inn as well. In fact, there were children running its corridors. Children of the Wall, they were called: born from the Night's Watch, wildlings, of whores, or any combination of the three. Sometimes Barristan would play with them, and they'd call him "Barry" or "grandfather". It surprises him how much it warms his heart. Even before Lord Snow's "Erection" (as the Wall fondly called the proclamation to allow legal whoring), there had been bastard/orphan children in Mole's Town, and all along the Wall's Gift.

While whoring might not have been legal, anyone with a lick more sense then Grenn could tell where these children came from. Moon Tea was not easy to get in the North, as the herbs necessary liked warm and dry climates. One would have to import from as far south as Highgarden or from the eastern lands. Anyway, it mattered not where these children came from, Bold Barristan had heart enough to love them all.

Barristan stayed in a room at the Hearth whenever he and his Commander traveled from Sentinel Stand. His Commander usually stayed at Castle Black, and would trust Barristan and others in their retinue to stay in Mole's Town.

Barristan himself had been offered leadership of one kind or another in his last twenty years at the Wall, having been there thirty years. He refused to take command, of either a castle or of the whole Wall. He couldn't lead with determinism; he was at his best as a loyal soldier with an occasional and welcome opinion.

Now, in his early fifties, he was growing weary of traveling here and there and of watching the ladies try to get in his pants. Before the Hearth had been built, before Jon Snow was made Commander, Barristan had had no problems keeping his celibacy vows, even when the Old Bear allowed female crows. Then, all of a sudden, sex was available again, via Lord Snow's "erection". To Barristan however, it was never just sex, it was an intimate and personal act, no matter what others said, or how heated he got. However, a few years pass, and he's able to avoid the carnal act; it's easy again since all the women who try to undress him are all the same in his eyes.

He had loved, once, to a lady promised to another. He never told her, and had made his vows at the Night's Watch before trouble could arise. But he always remembered her. She was smart, beautiful, witty with tact, graceful, and kind. She had died, though, even before she had a chance to marry, driven to grief over forbidden love.

Now, he was playing cyvasse with a child of the Wall, Myrcella. All of a sudden, there's a cry, a girl running down the stairs with a sheet covering her nakedness. Barristan recognizes her as Missandei, a wildling whore, who happened to have wildling brothers sworn to the black. He had watched her grow up from childhood to maidenhood, to see her move from her brother's room at the castle, to the rooms in the Hearth. She always had a smile and a kind word for him.

Now, however, her face is streaked with tears, sobs coming from her lips. She sees him, and bypasses Val to run into his safe arms. He holds her shuddering form, but looks to the stairs, where the man who had paid for her services is slowly descending as well, tying his breeches and unconcerned with the commotion.

Barristan is surprised to see Commander Joffrey of Oakenshield, when the light of the common room hits his face. He knows very little of the boy, except that most do not like him. Joffrey also has a reputation at the Hearth for being a little rougher then was deemed acceptable, but Barry just chalked it up to youthful ignorance and a harsh life on the Wall.

Turning back to Missandei, he asks her what happened. "He was… " Cough, "choking me!" Looking down at her throat, he can see signs of bruising, and he turns to Joffrey.

"Ser, by what reason have you felt you needed to harm this innocent girl?"

Joffrey sneers, looking like he'd rather ignore the old soldier as he buckles his sword belt back on. "It was for my pleasure. I bought her services, didn't I?"

Val tries to intercede, to suggest they go to another room, but Barristan cuts her off, in a rare display of anger. "These girls, these women, they deserve better." He looks around the room. "Who else has been hurt by this... unworthy ser?"

None of the ladies in the common room will look to him, and the other men seated remain still. Joffrey laughs. "See? They all know, they're nothing but cows: cattle, horses, bitches: all for the pleasure of men. I will walk out of here, and no one will say anything. I will come back tomorrow night, and they will allow it to happen again! Nothing but lowly whores, and I won't be sorry see them cry, look at me in fear, and bleed."

There's silence in the room. Almost. Moans and cries of ecstasy are in the background, and Missandei is still weeping; but no one else offers a comment. Finally, after seemingly to get his anger in check, Barristan starts to speak, low voiced and dangerous, "Is that because no one will give you respect on the Wall?"

Joffrey's smirk falls into a scowl, "How dare you?" He stalks towards Selmy, shoulders hunched, trying to look menacing, but Selmy knows by now it's all hot air. "I am a Lord on the Night's Watch, all you are is a washed up old man, past his time, I..."

Barristan drawing his sword out silenced whatever he would next say. "Dare to test your claim, _boy_?"

Joffrey lord looks stunned, no longer sure of himself. He looks around the room, seeking support, but none of the whores would say anything (the one time he would wish they did), and all of the men folk, black or wild, respect the ex-knight too much to reprimand him, let alone help Joffrey. Too late he realizes he should have remained silent before.

Swallowing, knowing that once the blade was out, Barristan followed through where others would make threats, Joffrey brought out his own sword. He was as good as dead.

Later, Missandei is scrubbing Barristan's back while he soaks in a tub. There is nothing untoward about this situation, he having been helped by the companions before.

"You were vary gallant, grandfather." Whispers Missandei. He grunts in response. She hugs him around his shoulders, uncaring that it gets the front of her dress wet. He allows her a few moments, before unclasping her hands in his own, and turning to face her, "No one should be mistreated like that. I was just doing my duty as a knight of the realm. No situation in life could take that distinction away from me."

Missandei responds, "Knight or no, not every man does what he has to." Smiling, she leans in to kiss his cheek. Then she kisses his lips. Barristan is too shocked at the bold girl to do anything other then just let her. When she places her hands on his chest, however, he moves away from her, grasping her hands again. He looks at her in disappointment, a look she mirrors.

"Grandfather, please. I love you!"

He sighs, "You do not love me." Seeing her shake her head in the negative, his own heart grows heavy as he's about to break hers. "You love the idea of me. Of honor, and kind men. There will be another, younger, worthier, man for you."

Her eyes neither leave his nor tear up; her strength impresses him, as much as it makes him sad. "I have loved you since I was a little girl, grandfather. My parents are properly buried in the wild, with your assistance, when no one else would help us. You have helped to train my brothers with the sword. You have taught me to read, when no one, myself included, thought it needed. My brothers and I owe you our very existence. More then that, I owe you my heart, which I give freely!"

"You do not need to give yourself to me, out of a feeling of debt. All that I did, I did because I wanted to, I cared for you all, and still do. I would be remiss in my caring if I allowed you to bed an old man simply to thank him."

Tears do fall from her face now, and Barristan brings up a hand to wipe a tear away. "I was afraid. Earlier, when Joffrey was abusing me, that I would never have the chance to tell you I loved you. He was beating me, preventing me from running out the door, and the whole time I was fearful for my life. More then that, I was surprised to feel fear at never seeing you again."

Missandei moves to hug him, and Barristan allows it, stunned at the amount of emotion coming from the girl. She continues, "When I ran into you arms in the common room, never have I been so relieved to see you! I swore to myself I would not let you leave my sight again, before telling you how I feel. I do not do this out of a sense of debt, but because I truly, unequivocally, love you, grandfather."

She releases him, and stands up. "I have told you, and do not regret it. You leave for Sentinel Stand tomorrow, and…" her voice starts to choke up, "I look forward to seeing you again in the future!"

She starts to run towards the door. "Wait!" Barristan stops her. "Wait." He stands from the tub, glad she has stopped, and he doesn't have to follow her through the corridors. He grabs a towel to wrap around his torso, before stepping out of the tub, and walking towards her.

Reaching her, he turns her around, and hugs her to him. She starts sobbing against his chest, thinking he only wishes to comfort her, while still rejecting her. Wasting not a moment more, he grabs her head, moving it so that he might kiss her properly.

It is tender and sweet. He can taste the salty tears upon her mouth, and its bittersweet taste goes wonderfully with her soft and yielding lips. The tears still fall, but she responds with such ardor that Barristan is left with little doubt of what she has confessed.

Breaking the kiss, he looks into her red-rimmed eyes and has his own confession for her. "I may have kissed many a fair lady in my day, but never have I lain with one." It brings a smile to her face, and then a laugh bubbles forth from her lips.

He smiles sheepishly at her, and her heart is hit with a pang of adoration. "Grandfather, your body is an old warrior, but your heart and soul are of my age. Come, let us finish your bath."

Towel less, and in the tub again, Barristan watches Missandei as she takes off her clothes. He has seen women naked before, and he appreciates her unique tan not seen in many wildlings, her golden eyes that are rare in the whole of Westeros, and finds her flat face a nice change from the full faces that are more common in the hearth.

However, noticing her body is not what runs through his head as she unties her laces holding her bosom, it is the fact that he indeed loves her back.

The love was a trap of his making. He had taught her to be smart. It caused her to be witty. Not only did he drill swordsmanship to her brothers, he drilled courtesies, gallantry, and gentility to all three. At times, he would share stories of adventure to all the Children of the Wall, and she would always take them to heart, playing them out with her dolls, and then pretending she herself was a lady in fact. What had started as an attempt to be a father figure, had caused Missandei to become the woman he once loved, all over again. Smart, beautiful, witty with tact, graceful, and kind; she was Ashara reborn, one that wants him back.

He reaches for her hips as she climbs in the tub with him, calloused hands stroking the smooth skin. She shudders, and he knows it's not from the heated water. She lays her own dainty hands on his leathery and muscled shoulders, before lowering herself to straddle his thighs.

Missandei smiles at him, rubbing his shoulders, and he smiles back. Her eyes lower to his chest, and her hands follow, seemingly in awe of his body. It does not tickle, but he chuckles that though she has been with countless men, she is still in awe of him.

Her awe is nothing in comparison to his amazement of having her before him; he can only wonder at his talent for hiding it better. His own eyes travel her smooth skin, so unlike his own rough leather-like skin. His hands feel her silken hips, travel up soft and yielding sides, cup firm yet plush breasts, better then any goose-feather pillow.

At her gasp, he looks again at her face, now flushed and opened mouthed. Squeezing her breasts, she moans and arches towards him. Moving a hand around her back, and the other to her chin, he maneuvers her into another kiss.

Her hands lower to his hips, and her breasts smash into his chest. When he feels a hand take his cock, he starts sucking her neck, moving his own hands to her ass.

He had been semi hard throughout the evening, but having her gentle hands stroke him like this, brought him to harsh attention. He can no more do anything for her but gasp and groan into her neck, as her thumb strokes the tip, and then strokes the whole length of him.

At his growl of appreciation once her other hand fondles his balls, Missandei rises a bit off him, placing her hands back on his shoulders. Squeezing her bum, he guides her center towards his shaft. Belatedly he wonder if she's ready for him, but is so green in matter of sex, that he can't do anything but thrust up into her warmth.

She lets out a small shout at his entrance; he is glad to realize she is already wet for him, and it has nothing to do with the bath water. She hugs him, mouth by his ear, and he loves hearing her moans and gasps.

It is her turn to move, pretty much taking charge by raising herself up, and slamming down. She does it again, and he moves his hands off her bum, choosing to explore her body some more.

The third time she falls on him, he thrusts back into her. A scream tumbles from her lips into his ear, and he sucks her neck. Now their rhythm is set, she'd rise from him, and he'd me her fall with thrusts.

"So close!" she whispers. He smirks to himself that he's able to last this long with her, for her. Another thrust, and she moves a hand to her core. This time, she doesn't rise off him, but grinds, rubbing herself a few times, mewling into his ear. It's making him mad with lust, he knows he close himself.

The grinding not doing it for him, he thrust up into her, and she clenches him, screaming her orgasm. One more thrust, and he's groaning his own release, spending his seed into her. A few more small thrusts later, and he's done, coming back to reality.

Missandei is still straddling him, heavily breathing, and still hugging him. He'd like to stay like this for a while longer, but the water is getting cold, most of it having sloshed onto the floor unbeknownst to them.

"Good thing we're on the first floor." He says to the air.

She giggles, and moves to look into his face. "I love you, Barristan!"

He smiles at her use of his name, and taps her nose, "I love you too, Missy."

She pouts at him; "Surely, I am worth more then my childhood nickname, grandfather?"

"Absolutely." He pats her hips, gesturing for her to stand up. He follows her, and then picks her up bridal style. "So long as you are employed by Val, however, I can never have you for myself, so you will stay 'Missy'."

She's quiet till he places her on the bed, then, "What if I came with you to Sentinel Stand?"

Sighing, he climbs in, gathering her in his arms. "Could you leave your brothers?"

"Why can't they be transferred? Why can't you be transferred closer here?"

"Are you serious about staying with me?"

"Yes."

They can work the details out later, but Bold Barristan is about to have a life-changing event. He pecks her on her lips. "I love you, Missandei."

**Post Script: *I'm making begging eyes and pouting* Reviews? Pwetty Pwease?**


	12. Sandor and Sansa

**Author's Notes: Point of interest, that no one will likely care about, I had a completely different chapter for these two, much shorter, and I more or less deleted it, with some lines thrown into this one. In any event, it's about time these two got together in this universe. Hope you enjoy!**

SANDOR AND SANSA

He was nicknamed the Hound, a loyal, but painfully candid; second only to the commander of the Oakenshield Castle, just east of Castle Black. His real name was Sandor, but Hound suited him fine. A snarling old warrior with a loyalty to the fight, he had earned a reputation as one of the best, if not fiercest, wildling. His scarred visage lent to the reputation.

He hated his commander, Joffrey, but Sandor had somehow been picked to be his steward and bodyguard. It was ridiculous, Joffrey barely old enough to command, and Sandor not even a crow, just a Wildling who refused to vow anything, except his brother's death. He had a feeling Lord Snow was playing a game, which he hoped somehow Sandor would off Joffrey.

Sandor was more patient then people gave him credit for (though still not a lot). It was scary to see him when he let loose, to see him fight with no hesitation or reserve. That, coupled with his blunt tongue, gave people the false impression that he was more of a brute then a man. His rage was great, but rarely was it released, unless his brother, "Gregor", was mentioned, or was around. Which, unfortunately, happened to be a lot of the time, since both were serving at Oakenshield.

Sansa, at the Hearth, was really the only one who knew of his kindness. Others came to trust him, to learn of his positive qualities, to come to call him "friend", but Sansa was the one who solely relished in his smiles and gentleness. She was nicknamed "Lady" at the Hearth, but he always called her "Little Bird". Her feather light kisses and touches were heart rendering, and her moans and gasps were like sweet songs to his ears, besides the songs she sang.

Sandor had noticed Sansa the first day she arrived at the Hearth, escorted by Theon. Her party had arrived in the middle of the day, and it was warm enough for her to go without a cloak. He saw her shinning red hair, slim but curvy build, and smooth and innocent face, which was ducked down in shyness and fear. He did not let her see him yet; wanting to know what personality went with the beauty, wishing to spare himself her reaction upon seeing his scarred face. The more he watched over the next few moons, the more he thought of his own sister, who turned into a wounded soul and had perished under their brother's brutal hands.

He had only ever gone to the Hearth whenever "Accidental Commander" Joffrey went, and he would drink and pay for a fuck like any other hot-blooded man. But when Sansa started to entertain the customers with her singing, reading, or cyvasse skills, he was unable to resist talking to her, unable to resist going to the Hearth more often then before. He mostly wished to hear her sing, which his sister loved to do (though without the benefit of a harp or training). Sansa, at first, looked at him with trepidation, but she looked that way at everybody; Sandor knew that she was a broken, shy little bird, and did not take it personally.

Sandor did take it personally when she started to smile brightly at his approach. Her courage was returning, and he was glad to see it. She was no whore, but at the Hearth she was blossoming in a way that he knew she never could at the castle from whence she came, and where she honestly belonged. He saw her become friendly with a number of customer's, and he was jealous of her attention, but he knew it was for her good.

Then she decided to lay with men.

Bloody hells, but he had wanted to be the first, though she had chosen the Maester, Tyrion. He admits to jealousy, but Tyrion was a safe and honorable man to lie with, even the Hound had to admit that. Sandor, far from looking safe, did have a few trysts with the ladies that ended up with him paying extra for their care afterwards. Sansa probably asked around, and had decided, rightfully so, that Sandor was not a good choice for a first customer. He, however, looked to her the following day, and asked for her health. She smiled at his caring words, and said she was more then fine. She said her past was slowly fading, and she was glad to move forward.

He worried that she would eventually regret lying with men, and he'd never get the chance. Then he worried that Joffrey ruined whatever progress she had made when he violated her trust. But the next time he went to the Hearth, she came to him and gave him a song, giving him small smiles the whole time. He had always asked for a kiss from her, and that time, she willingly gave him a chaste one.

He wouldn't see her for a while, Joffrey deciding to take a break from the Hearth, and demanding his Hound stay with him. Something about being threatened by an "old soldier". Sandor didn't mind so much, there was enough ale in Oakenshield's kitchens, and plenty of men to spar with, to keep him occupied.

The next time his saw her was not in the Hearth, but in the outskirts of Mole's Town. Riding his horse back to Oakenshield from the town's kennel master, he spied her red hair first, the only bright spot amongst the dreary browns of the trees, and dull whites of the old snow.

She was by a Weirwood: a rare one that was not part of a castle, or town, but still in the wild. Thirty or so paces from the worn road, he could see her kneeling in front of the sappy face, grey wool dress still dry upon a layer of blood red leaves. Her grey dress and red hair almost blending with the weirwood, he wonders that he could distinguish her; maybe it had been the leaves that drew his eyes.

Dismounting, he walks to within ten paces of her, and stops. Something compels him to unsheathe his sword and take a knee, sword point to the ground. Later, he'll say it was the Old Gods, at the time, he'd say it was his wish to honor Sansa. Perhaps it was a little of both.

Sandor looks towards Sansa for a while, taking in her stiff, but regal, posture, and red hair gently swaying in the breeze, her tiny feet poking out from under the dress. Feeling a bit intrusive on her quiet revere, he lowers his gaze, lowers his head to the pommel of his sword, and closes his eyes, content to listen to the noises of the forest.

Sansa herself had just arrived not long before, also drawn towards the red of the leaves. Her unfortunate husband had kept to the Seven, but her family, before she married, had kept to the Old Gods. It did her spirit good to see the Weirwoods again, to see something of her childhood. She almost felt as if her father, mother, and siblings were among the leaves, in the sap eyes, looking to her and giving comfort.

There were Weirwoods beyond the Wall, she was told, but she had been too nervous to enter a warrior's place, let alone go beyond it towards the night terrors. One of her first trips to Mole's Town had made going beyond the Wall unnecessary, after spying a wild Weirwood not too far from either the Hearth, or from Mole Town.

Saying the last of her prayers, Sansa gets to her feet. Turning to go home, she sees Sandor on one knee a few paces from her, looking up as she crunches the leaves under her, a look of serenity upon his face.

He stays kneeled as she walks up to him, tentatively smiling at him. He returns one, one that brightens his smooth face, and scrunches up his scars in an interesting contrast. She is used to him by now, scars physical and mental, and she stops just short of touching his raised knee.

"I did not know you kept the Old Gods, Sandor."

"I don't. I saw you, and I came to keep you company."

Sansa blushes, "I thank you." He nods. "You have always been so kind to me. Even more then Maester Tyrion, and that is saying something!"

Sandor smirks. "I couldn't give a fuck about him, or the other wh… companions. It's you. Damn, Little Bird, you make a man feel wanted. Needed." He wants to say more. He almost does, but leaves Sansa to figure out the rest. He knows she cares for him, and not his money, when she chooses to spend time with him. He knows she knows that he cares for her as well. He just can't say it. Not yet, if ever.

Sansa steps closer, her one leg just touching his raised knee, and places her gloved hands on his shoulders. "I never thanked you for your compassion after... after Joffrey..." She can no more say the rest then he could tolerate it, so he gently shushes her, smiling to show that he understands.

Blushing again, Sansa leans forward to kiss him. Closing his eyes in bliss, he allows her to control the pace, and how much she wants. He groans when she begs entrance to his mouth, readily granting it to her.

As their tongues battle, he lowers his sword between them, better for his own gloved hands to grasp her hips underneath her cloak.

He is glad he decided to forgo armor that day, choosing only a cloak to cover his jerkin and breeches. Glad, because that would be too much fumbling for what he knows will come next, as soon as she steps away from his grasp and starts untying her cloak, and taking off her gloves.

Standing himself, he also unties his black cloak, and lays it on top of the snow and red leaf ground. Sansa gingerly stepped over his sword (still on the ground), before lowing her own grey cloak atop his.

Not really warm enough to really take anything else off, Sansa next lowers herself on top of the cloaks, and looks to Sandor. Or rather, looks at his un-gloved hands, which are untying his breeches. Flushed, with an open mouth, she bunches up her skirts, reaching to take off her small clothes.

When he kneels between her legs, she reaches for his face, a hand upon each, and unique cheek. Hovering over her, he welcomes her kisses as she welcomes his warm finger by her slit.

Skillfully rubbing her bundle of nerves and thrusting a few fingers into her, he is surprised at how quickly she becomes wet. Most whores he has known have become desensitized to sex, and need extra coaxing; her getting wet for _him_ gets him hard for her. Harder then when her hands reach for him, shyly feeling the length of him.

Knowing him to be hard, she caresses his torso underneath his tunic. He shivers, her cold hands creating new sensations for him.

Breaking the kiss, she arches towards him, head thrown back in bliss, and he knows she's almost close to breaking. A trail of ice fire marks her hands moving to his back, anchoring her to him as she clenches on his fingers, hollow gasps breaking from her lips.

After a last, breathless gasp, she falls back on the cloaks. He removes his hand from her, replacing them with his girth, lengthwise at her entrance. He hovers over her, hands braced about her head. He spends a few moments looking at the woman beneath him.

Her red hair is all over the place; some in her mouth, over her face, but he likes how it shines against his black cloak, which was larger then her own cloak. It's the only black clothing he'll wear to mark his station at the Wall. He has never liked it, until it was contrasted with Sansa's hair.

Her eyes are closed, so he rakes his eyes lower, taking in the form of her heaving breasts and waist underneath her dress. Lowering the gaze further, he's further aroused seeing her legs, gartered and silk stockings still on, relaxed and wantonly open to him, skirts bunched up to her hips.

He promises himself that he'll go to her at the Hearth, so he can readily map her naked body. This, however, is needed to show her he can be as kind to her in coupling, as he is when they talk.

Flexing his hips, his cock rubs against her slit, getting slick with her juices. Glancing back towards her face, he reaches for her chin; moving it to meet her eyes, open once again.

He wants nothing more then to sink into her right as her lusty blues look again at him, but he wants her ready. He kisses her, hand lowering to caress her neck, then her breasts. Though covered with a cotton dress, he can feel their firmness and that they're pebbled. Groaning, he again slides up and down her slit.

Her cold hands start her own exploration of him, discovering the hard plains of his abs and chest. She scratches at him in lust, in tandem with a barely heard moan.

Knowing her to be ready, he grabs her waist and turns them over, causing a gasp to escape her lips. With her now straddling him, confusion on her face, he smirks, at the same time begging her. "Take control." He rasps at her, his own control barely there. "Take your time, do what you want."

She shyly looks down, and he fears that she'll go too slow, or worse, get off. But when she looks up, there's such a look of adoration, he wishes he could be her knight for true.

Delicate, cold hands still underneath his tunic, she caresses him a moment more, before bring her hands to her skirt, lifting it so she could see their groins. Grabbing his member, she strokes it once; to tease him he is sure, before slowly lowering herself onto him.

It's his turn to throw his head back in bliss, a guttural groan releasing from his lips. Hands on her hips, he helps to raise her off, and then bring her down. Another groan escapes him, though all Sansa has done is open her mouth in ecstasy. One more thrust up into her wet warmth, he forces her to stay still.

Looking at her, a frown on her face, he almost laughs. "Girl, it's OK for you to enjoy this. Say my name."

"Sandor… I don't see…"

Cutting her off, he tells her to say his name again, raising her off him.

"Sandor?"

"One more time, Little Bird." Preparing to thrust into her, as he brings her down.

"SandOH!" Pleased at the sound, he whispers, "Good little bird, I like hearing you sing."

"Oh gods!" she mumbles, before another thrusts brings forth a moan from her. The more they meet each other, the louder her moaning gets, the sweeter it is to Sandor's ears. Sometimes, she says his name, and he'll thrust harder for it.

He's about to cum, and he grabs her hands to his chest, allowing her to thrust against him at her own speed. A few more times, with a mix of "Sandor!" and "Oh, gods!" and he spills into her.

Her own climax comes with a loud scream.

Collapsing down on him, she starts sobbing against his chest.

Surprised at such a reaction, he sits up, hand under her chin to look at her; "I wasn't that bad, was I Little Bird?"

She laughs, wiping away tears, "No. I have not been so free to enjoy… coupling, ever." She looks at him with a teary smile. "Thank you, so much. I… I really appreciate it, Sandor."

She loved him, he knew, she wanted to say, "I love you", but could not. Neither could he. "Anything for you, Little Bird."

Sandor realizes that neither one would ever take vows again, would never commit to duty, or love, or a person; but, in a small way, they had promised each other better things, better treatment. After they fix their clothing again, he hands her a wild winter rose, and she plucks red leaves out of his hair.

After gently lifting her up to his horse, he looks up to her and asks, "What would Val say about you giving yourself to me for free?"

With as straight a face as Sansa can muster, she replied, "I could not give a flying fuck as to what she would think." Then she gasps, a hand fluttering to hide her smile.

Sandor has a moment of shock, before he barks loud laughter towards the sky. Climbing up behind her, he gives her a ride home, both feeling that the Weirwood was smiling, and not frowning, at their departure.

**Post Script: I'll be traveling for the holidays. There will most likely be no chapter posted next weekend. Happy Thanksgiving! I'll be REALLY Thankful if someone, anyone, posts a review!**


	13. Jon and Arya

**Author's Notes: I have no idea why Jon is so silly in my head when I write him. Perhaps it's because he's so serious in the books, and I just want to friggen shout at him sometimes. Though I do love how he's grown as a person, a fighter, and a leader. Then Aegon, freezing up during the skirmish on the barge, and I think "Yeah, he's not leader material." I'm assuming either Aegon'll grow up fast, like Sansa, or will be killed because no amount of planning and teaching will make events happen, like poor baby Rheago. **

**Anyway, enough about my theories of the book, here's the next chapter. I would say sorry about silly Jon, but I'm not; I enjoyed writing this one.**

ARYA AND JON SNOW

Grey eyes met grey eyes. Both were glaring, and both refused to back down. "This was my night off, my lord." Says female grey eyes.

"I'm sorry, but I need your help, if I'm to prepare for the Queen's visit, since my steward decided to be sick, now of all times." Replies male grey eyes.

She sighs, and both unconsciously run hands through their similar dark brown hair. Her frown matches his stern face, and she finally gives up and relents, "I'm sorry. I was just excited to try a new man at the Hearth. Do you know how rare it is for there to be male whores?"

Jon smiles, "About as rare as finding an overzealous female sex fiend, such as yourself?"

"Yeah." She rubs her long face, his equally long one nods in sympathy. He hands her a wine goblet. "Let's get started." And they do.

Three hours later, Arya stretches in her chair. "Think it's properly planned?"

"Except for my speech, yeah. You can go now."

She stands, moving towards the door, before turning to look at her brother in vows, if not in blood. Her friend, who knew everything about her, and vice versa, was rubbing his temples in frustration. When both were younger, she had followed him everywhere in their clan, pestering him to play with her, or teach her to fight. And then she followed him to the Wall, only a few name days after he. She would not abandon him during a fight, so she would not abandon him during speech writing.

She walks back to him, and he looks at her with surprise. "I'll just give you a neck message, to help with your speech."

"You're a pal, Arya. And your messages are much better then Sam's." They share a laugh at their mutual friend's expense, before she starts kneading knots out of his neck.

It is not the first time she gives him a message, but it is the first time he moans in appreciation, and leans his head back. She kisses his forehead, ready to leave again, but he grabs her head, and moves both their heads in for a real kiss. Breaking from the kiss, grey meets grey and he says, "I think I've had too much wine."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, my lord commander." She says his title slowly, deeply, and he has inkling where things might go. His cock twitches in anticipation.

Not disappointing him in the least, she moves around him, to stand between him and his desk. Slowly, achingly, she takes off all of her clothing, one at a time, throwing them at him. He'd take her jerkin, smell it, and drop it to the floor ready to receive her under tunic. After she takes off her breeches, she reaches behind her to indiscriminately wipe off all the papers from his desk, and continues to hop on it.

Jon is weirdly thankful that none of the papers floated into the fire, and even more strangely grateful that no one can read his quirky mind at times like these, before he stands up from his chair.

It is his turn, now, to take off his clothes one by one. He doesn't hand them to her for inspection, like she had done for him, but she just giggles every time more skin is revealed. Smirking, Jon remarks that maybe she was the one who had too much wine.

She slaps his chest; he grabs her thighs in return, reaching down to properly kiss her. They taste of wine, moan together, and grab each other's hair. _Who needs a mirror? _Thinks Jon Snow. _Here is my double, and my opposite, right here._

They mutually break from the kiss, and the similarities end. Arya leans back on her elbows, and Jon grips her knees, stepping to place his dick at her entrance.

When he slams into her, it is all they can do not to scream, and bring men running with swords drawn. It had happened once with Jon and Ygritte, and the Commander would rather not have to relive that embarrassing moment. To focus his mouth on better things, he brings his head to her chest, and licks a breast. After a thrust or two, he moves to the other one.

He thrusts again, and he wonders why they have never done this before? Though he loves her as he might a sister, he does not see her as one. She's young, fierce, and beautiful in her own right. She's tight and wet for him; this should have been done ages ago. When her hands move to grab at his shoulders, for a better purchase, he bites her neck to, again, keep from moaning, which would also damage his "leader image".

Their pace is faster now, and Jon picks her up from the desk, the better to slam her against the wall, and then continues railing her.

She meets him again and again; short gasps falling from her lips. They're not really loud, but Ygritte rarely lets him dominate, so he places a hand on her mouth, and bites her neck harder. Under his palm, he feels her scream in pleasure. He imagines that his hand on her mouth just gave her incentive to not hold back.

He can feel the end for him, so he tells her. She nods in response, head leaning back on the wall, mouth heating his hand from her pants. Some thrusts more, and he's biting her neck with all the force of his finish.

The bite stimulated Arya to arch off the wall rather violently, and it signaled her own end, one where she was screaming even louder against Jon's hand.

Spent, they both slump. Arya relaxes against the wall, while Jon falls to his knees, bringing his sister in vows with him. Releasing her neck, he rests his head on her's, smirking at her. "Believe it or not, I think that helped with the speech."

Arya just gives him a look that clearly questions his sanity. "After we just did, that is what you are thinking of?"

"What?" He releases her and stands up, giving her a hand to help her up. "I was just thinking of how much better I feel, then before fucking you." She just smirks and shakes her head, so he further defends himself. "Before, I was so stressed about the speech. Now, I feel so elated, I could probably write a speech to save for a future war effort, or something."

Arya, who has now begun putting her clothes back on, says nothing, but continues to smile. Jon comes up behind her to hug her to him, to show. He hasn't dressed yet, but the touch is only friendly, as well as appreciative. "Thanks, Arya."

Glad he's done talking about speech writing, Arya pats his arms surrounding her, "Anytime, Jon. Do you need more help with the speech writing?"

He kissed her hair, before replying. "No, I think I quickly get through it now. If not, I'll just replay our hour. Coincidentally, did you know it was the Wolf Hour?"

Arya snorts, and breaks from his embrace, placing her jerkin over her tunic. "You, my lord commander, are not all there in the head, but I love you anyway." She pecks him on the cheek, before stealing out of his solar, one last friendly smile sent to each other before she was gone.

**Post Script: For the two "guests" who left reviews: Thank you very much! I'm glad this story is being enjoyed. The reviews certainly made my day :)**


	14. Queen Danerys and Drogo

**Author's Apology: Sorry for not posting in a long while. Holidays and whatnot. Without further ado...**

QUEEN DANERYS AND DROGO

Upon the Queen's arrival at the Wall, she was given lush quarters at Castle Black, and loaned extra stewards during her stay. She stayed the length of a moon's turn, and all during her visit, she was pleased; had even made lasting friendships from the Night's Watch and Wildlings.

She was honored: decorated with awards, gifted with Wildling curios, and entertained with many elaborate or humble songs. What she lacked for summer wines was more then made up with homemade brews, and she missed not her rich boars and deer, when she could feast on strange bear, pig, and goose.

Danerys had fun, and those she visited felt honored in turn that she was not a haughty sort, her humble admiration towards their ways was a boon to Westoros. Her strength as queen strengthened ten-fold during her visit.

There was one place, however, that might have spelled danger, and that was the Hearth. It is known that Danerys Stormborn drove her thunder and lightening throughout Essos, burning and abolishing slavery and bringing a new era of prosperity to an already prosperous land. She had come to the Wall riding clouds that promised the same if the Hearth was full of unwilling victims.

When Lord Commander Snow escorted Queen Danerys Targaryen, the first of her name, to the Hearth, he spent the short trip telling her about how he had sanctioned the place, and how Val, the Wildling woman, had built and run the place.

"It is not that I do not trust you, Jon." Replied the queen, already on a first name basis with the commander, "Just that I need to see for my own eyes."

So she saw. Val had been a most gracious host, and even _allowed_ Danerys to talk to her companions in private (there really was no question that she would, but it was better that she acquiesced).

Sansa, demure and refusing to meet the queen's eyes, told of her sad story, of her choice, and of how she wouldn't change a thing that couldn't be changed. Elaborating on that, she spoke of her dreams of ladyship, castles, silks, and so on. But that life would include a lord husband that she would not love, since she was in love with a wildling. Dany nodded, and hugged the woman in sympathy.

Ygritte told the Queen that she was the first to sign up, and that she loved it. She had already loved sex beforehand, what was better then being paid for it? And she was saving too, had the full confidence that should she decide to leave, there would be no problem.

Myrcella traded stories with the Queen. She had been wide-eyed and hungry to hear about the warm and colorful south, but had also been full of pride for the Hearth. Danny learned how Myrcella was raised, and even felt a stirring of jealousy that she had not had the freedoms Myrcella had towards interacting with children of all ages and backgrounds, towards learning the same things boys learned, towards Myrcella's choice of staying at the Hearth or going anywhere she wished. Never did Dany have the choice to not be queen.

The jealousy quickly passed, for she remembered that she did have a happy childhood. Despite her father's wilting death of madness, and her elder brother's fruitless campaigns against the slavers, which cost him his life: Dany had known no happier moments then in the Keep's walls. Always were the gardens in her mind as she ravaged Essos in revenge for Viserys' death. Constantly did the memory of strong walls soothe her disquieted mind during her battle with the House of Undying. And when people cursed her or cast frowns in her direction, did she recall the lords, ladies, servants, and all at court who would smile at her. Though for the choice, Dany and Myrcella are similar after all, having grown up where they feel safe and happy.

Danerys was pleased to have met many and more, almost all that lived at the Hearth. She even remarked that she had never seen male companions before.

Val, cheeky and unafraid of that whom the kneelers knelt to, asked, "Would your grace like to sample one of the males? I would not even charge you." (There was no question of charging the queen, but it was better that Val had control.)

Unaccustomed to her subjects being so brash (but nevertheless enjoying it), Danerys was stunned into blushing silence by the proprietress's offer. Dany did not lack in the knowledge of sex, but the south did lack the Wall's openness towards it. Unsure, hesitantly, she finally said, "It would be unseemly for a queen to take part in such a... dalliance."

Val just smiled.

Dany looked away, "Though I am tempted." Opening up to the Wildling woman as she hadn't opened up to anyone about such matters, she confessed some more. "It has been so long since my paramour has left me." She was speaking of one Ser Jorah Mormont. A knight almost thrice the queen's age, he had nevertheless won her heart for a time, before betraying her.

He did not so much leave the queen, as the queen banished him. Banished him for taking it upon himself to do what he thought was right, without consulting, or even telling, his beloved queen. The end result did not damage the kingdom, or even her person; but the trust that had been strong and comforting, was breached and no longer existed.

It had been a long and torturous twelve moons since. She sometimes regretted releasing him from her service, missing his humor and confidence (she had thought they talked about anything and everything under the sun). At other times wished she could punish him worse then she already had.

By the end of the tale, Val had the queen in her arms. "That's the wonderful thing about my hearth; all comfort and love, without commitment or trust. You don't have to see or hear from this man ever again, should you wish, and no one would be insulted. Indeed, it would be this man's honor to worship you and make you feel wonderful, as our queen should feel.

"And, if I may be bold, the land knows of your bareness; what's the worst that could happen?" And it was true; a witch in Essos had cursed Danerys to barrenness, until the day should be night. It burns, the reminder that Dany could never have a family of her own, that the throne would fall to one of her unworthy cousins after she would travel with the Stranger.

So it was that Dany came back the next day (after reassuring Lord Snow that she was pleased already with the establishment), and met with Val's choice for her.

Upon entering the room, she saw the man had a hungry look for her, very much like when Jorah would look at her during their more romantic moments. But that's where the similarities ended. This man was younger (though still older then she), taller, tanned, more muscular, darker hair and eyes, and he wore less. Only in a pair of horsehide breeches, with small bells in his hair, she recognized him as a Dothraki, and wonders how he found a home here at the Hearth.

Val had told her to shed her titles, that it would make this "dalliance" more enjoyable. It makes it easier, Dany thinks, to allow the Dothraki to take charge, for she knows not what to do. She knows "what" to do, but not initiating it with a complete stranger. So instead of trying to come up with a command, she just takes the initiative to take off her cloak, the bearskin one that was a gift from one of the larger Wildling Tribes. It had reminded her a bit of her Bear Knight, but no thoughts of him come to her now.

Underneath, she's wearing a customary northern style; thick cotton and a high cut to the neck. The color purple marking it as a rich dress (purple dyes were hard to come by), and the embroidered silver vines added to the status of the wearer. The coloring complimented her eyes and hair, and was cinched to flatter her body; it seemed to make her man for the night even hungrier at the sight of it.

Blushing, Dany stood there as the horse lord closed the distance between them, sending a waft of masculinity, sweat, and horse smells up her nose. Taking a deep breath of the comforting scent, she calms her nerves and brings her hands to his chest, feeling bold and excited, never in all her reign (or pre reign) as she done something so... forbidden.

Grasping her hips, he brings her flush to him, lowing his head to inhale the scent of her. It sends a shiver down her spine, and memories to surface of Jorah. How she missed him! Tears started to fall, regrets bubbled, and she almost convinced herself to call out to him when she returned to the capital, and to call this "dalliance" off.

"No." the man whispered. Refocusing on the here and now, she realized that he had brought his face to hers, no doubt to kiss, before he saw her crying. "No." he said again, bringing a hand up to wipe her tears away. Though large and powerful enough to pulverize her face, he nevertheless handled her like she was fine Myrish lace, instead of a hardened queen.

Leaning into his touch gratefully, she thanks him for his compassion. "No." he says again, a wrinkle of confusion on his face. Chuckling, she realizes that the Drothraki man knows very little of her language. He smiles at her chuckle, the most soft "No" tumbling from his lips.

"Yes." she replies, commands. He must know that word as well, for he surges forth to claim her lips.

Possessive and domineering, it is the opposite of his hands, which still caress her in an idle fashion. Giving in to the passion, she opens her mouth to his bites and licks, licking back and enjoying the taste of sweat.

All at once his hands reach the collar of her dress, and he rips it, down to the waist. There is a small part of Dany that is dismayed, the dress was a gift from the combined efforts of the Hearth companions; but it barely scratches at her desire to be consumed in the moment.

Shivering in excitement, she arched her chest, seeking the heat of his chest. Closer to him, she can now feel his erection against her abdomen. Groaning, feeling herself getting wet, her hands move from slack idleness to the belt that hold up his unique horse hide pants, as no strings hold him together.

Feeling that the woman is about to lower his unbuckled pants, he mirrors her action, and all too soon, they're both naked before each other; lips still attached.

Abruptly breaking from their kiss, Drogo gently, but forcefully, turned Dany around, guiding her to a position she had never experienced before. She had half a mind to be insulted at the dog position, before the other half of her mind relished the naughtiness of it. No queen had ever been so handled before, she thinks. If they had, it was a well-kept secret.

Any thoughts that might follow were quickly blown to nonexistence as Drogo thrust into her.

He was indeed a horse lord; he filled her up completely. Giving her no chance to dictate the pace, he continues, his speed swift and accurate. After the initial yell of surprise, Dany moans with wild abandon, rocking with his every thrust, reduced to mindless pleasure. 

At one point, he leans down so his chest is blanketing her back. He slows down to prolong the pleasure. Danerys tries to buck back, but he brings an arm around her, pinning her to him. She cries out, he doesn't seem to notice. All she can do in his embrace is pant.

Confused, and frustrated, she growls. He growls in response, giving up a thrust. Gasping in surprise, she waits for more, only to have to growl again. Another hard thrust.

"UGH! What the hell? ARGH!"

To which he thrusts hard again. Angry, and turned on even more, she screams bloody murder, to which he angrily thrusts again.

"Fuck." He speaks into her ear. "Fuck!" She screams back. And he's pounding into her again, no longer just fast and accurate, but harsh too.

She loves it.

"Seven…! Bloody…! HELLS…! AAAHH!" And she's screaming her release, to which he follows shortly thereafter.

Collapsing to the ground, him falling on top of her, she thinks she doesn't want to give him up just yet. That evening, not only did she loose some pent up frustrations, Drogo learned some new Westorosi cuss words, too.

As Queen Danerys Targaryn, the first of her name, leaves the Wall, notables flank her in her honor. She nods to the Maesters. She smiles at the Commanders who could make it. When she comes upon Snow, she hugs him, before reaching her dragon and mounting it with Drogo, in honor, sitting behind her.

In the back of the crowd that has gathered, the crows snicker upon hearing Arya bemoan the fact that she never got to try him out.

**Post Script: Well, I just turned everything around! This was hard to write, because I wanted it to be simple Dany and Drogo action. But... she's queen! And Drogo can't just be a wildling. I had to explain how they got where they were, and why, especially since most of the characters are at the Wall. "THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SIMPLE STORY!" I said to myself. Yeah…right. ;) Though I never did explain Drogo at the Hearth... That'll remain a silly mystery. Hope the readers enjoyed... leave a note! **

**DVD extra: I wrote out a new story theme that will makes its round through some of the characters, I'm just so excited to share that bit!** **You might recall that I reworded the curse against Dany bearing children: that was done on purpose, and is the hint! :)**


	15. Sam and Ygritte

**Author's Note: This came out of left field, I have no prior thought of these two together. But, hey, friends share, right? And Sam and Jon are friends, so Ygritte should be a friend to Sam by proxy. So there.** **I don't know, silliness. Enjoy!**

JON: YGRITTE AND SAMWELL

Because Lord Commander Jon Snow was always so busy, he sometimes asked for a companion to come to Castle Black to entertain him. Eventually, he would just ask for Ygritte, seeming to like her more then the others. Sam had asked Jon why he didn't just take one of the women on the watch at Castle Black, there were plenty and most were willing. Jon just smiled and said he ought to set an example to show that he still wouldn't chop anyone's head off.

Naturally, Sam knew better. Craven he was, but dumb as an aurochs he was not; that was Grenn. No, Sam knew that Jon was in love with Ygritte; though Jon was tough, The Commander was just too stubborn, or pathetic in the ways of romance, to admit to it.

Of course Sam would have to suffer Jon and Ygritte running though Castle Black, seemingly just to make his life miserable; it did not help Sam if those two were in love or not. It was mere coincidence, really, but... honestly! In his own library! They should make a quiet rule or something for the sacred place of books. It was unfair seeing what they had, when he knew he would never get the woman of his dreams being fat and cowardly as he is (flashes of Gilly filter through his brain).

And the day he stumbled upon them in the stables, ugh! The irony was that they were entirely quiet that time; he had no forewarning that they were there. He had slammed the door open, finesse rendered impossible with the saddle in his hands, causing the pair to jump, and himself to squeak in surprise. They had been in the middle of the carnal act, her on top of him, his hands on her ass, writhing upon a block of hay.

Gathering his wits, Samwell had enough gumption to yell, "Honestly! Is there no where safe from you two?" And he walks away, determined to put off his horse-riding lessons for another day. He hears giggling behind him, and it just makes him madder.

That night, however, things turn around. An entirely naked Ygritte sitting on his crotch wakes him from his sleep. Gasping in surprise, he raises himself to his hands, an utterly shocked look on his face. He slowly begins to realize that she managed to get his dick out of his breeches, hard, and in her, all before he woke up. "Don't be mad." she whispers, before swiveling her hips. Sam groans, falling back to his bed, instinctively grabbing her hips in the process. She places her hands on his bare chest (she somehow got the tunic off too), and starts to earnestly move up and down on him.

"What about Jon?" He asks.

"Shh. Don't worry about him. It was his idea, anyway." So he forgets about his friend and commander, fleetingly wonders if this constitutes as rape or not, then concentrates on the woman above him, breasts swaying just above his head. He tentatively reaches a hand to a breast, and with her moan of encouragement, strokes a nipple. She's rocking him harder, and he's feeling pretty good too, when she shudders over him, and then stills.

Still hard in her, Sam leans up and kisses her. It's awkward, but Ygritte teaches him what's good and how she likes it. He uses both hands now to knead her breasts, and she arches into his touch. Deciding his hands shouldn't have all the fun; he wraps them around her waist, bringing his face closer to her boobs, and swallows one. Ygritte laughs at him, but it's a gentle, encouraging one, so he smirks into her cleavage, biting one tit to tease her.

She whimpers with the bite, a thoroughly un-Ygritte like sound, that it reaches Sam's cock, causing him to thrust up into her. She has by now recovered from her own orgasm, and is moving against him again. Instead of doing all the work this time, she reaches around his neck and hips, and forces him to follow her as she turns them. Now on her back, his face still in her cleavage, he starts to move away for fear of crushing her. "Don't go." She whispers. "Your fat, not a horse. You won't hurt me." Her hands grip him harder, and he stays.

Ygritte moves her hands to his neck, before swiveling her hips. Instinctively, Sam flexes his own hips. Hearing her moan, he does it again.

"Please!" She groans out, "Harder!" Pulling almost all out, then thrusting back into her heat, he hears himself groan, without his realizing he was doing so. It felt so good, that he did it again. 

"Ugh! That's it! Faster!" So he does what he's been doing, but faster. And it seems to pleasure, she hasn't stopped moaning and crying out. Emboldened, Sam stops analyzing the situation and just goes for it, loosing himself in her tight heat, feeling a rush and tightness in his own cock and balls.

Without realizing it, he has been pounding into Ygritte steadily for the last few moments, Ygritte matching and meeting his thrusts. Her hands lowered to his ass, scratching his back along the way. When she squeezes his buttocks, it's his undoing, and he screams a release, hot streams of cum hitting her walls. Dimly, Sam is aware of her own scream, her arched back pushing into him.

As Sam feels the last of his seed leave him, so his strength does as well. He has enough presence of mind to roll to the side, and just stares at the ceiling in amazement.

He feels Ygritte laying herself on his chest, and becomes aware of the state of his body for the first time since letting go to the experience. He still is breathing hard, but it doesn't bother him as much as after practicing swordsmanship; in fact, it feels like coming down from a blissful high instead of working up a heart attack.

He realizes he's sweaty, and his limp dick is sticky with juices, but his normally neat mind couldn't care less about that as the fact that perhaps this type of exercise should be done more often…

As if reading his mind, the strangely tender Ygritte pecked his lips, before leaning on her elbow and looking down at him with a smirk. "Gilly would be one lucky woman." She smacks his chest for good measure, "If you would just work up your nerve to talk to her!"

Sam smiles at her, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, "Thanks, Ygritte." Frowning again, "Do you really think she'd like me to court her?"

Ygritte laughs. "You southron boys know nothing. I thought Jon was bad, and he was a Wildling!" She starts stroking his stomach, as if for good luck. "You, Sam, are the nicest man alive. Gilly needs a nice man after her abusive father. You have the added bonus of saving her from him; she adores you, Sam. You both are perfect for each other, it almost makes me sick with heartache." After a minute second of reflection, "Almost."

"Yes. But… does she like me?"

Rolling her eyes and getting off the bed, Ygritte tries to reassure him. "Yes. She always looks to you when you're near. Haven't you noticed that she always brings you your favorite beer when you visit the Hearth? And… she always has an ear for your stories. Who else does?"

Watching Ygritte dress, but his mind elsewhere, he concedes her point. Most others would find his talk boring or awkward. Never before had he noticed how easy it was to talk to Gilly. "OK." He says finally, moving to lace his breeches as if he were going to take on the world this second, "I'm going to the Hearth tomorrow to treat some of the kids, I'll ask if she would like me to court her."

Ygritte smiles at him, knowing that the wildling woman would only look at Sam strangely, before showing him what she _really_ wanted. "I'm glad. I'd say 'good luck', but you won't need it." She hugs him, before going to find Jon.

**Post Script: Thanks for the reviews I have gotten. It's unbelievable how much more I want to write with a kind word or two... I'll still write to the end (there's actually an ending in mind!), but reviews = motivation. Thanks again for those who have, and if you do like it, drop a line!**


	16. Gendry and Arya II

**Author's Notes: There was a nice guest reviewer who wished for more of this couple... so I moved this half-way edited chapter up a few. Besides, they were the first ship I followed; it's all very sentimental. Ironically, this might be my dirtiest chapter, but I'm not sure how to measure "dirtiness". To the guest reviewer, thanks! And I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks to all other reviewers, youse guys rock!**

GENDRY AND ARYA

They're ranging south of the wall, between Castle Black and Oakenshield. It's more recreational then work related, so the pace is slow. It was their fourth time meeting, and Gendry had wanted to see more of the surrounding lands. Eastwatch by the Sea boasted sea, sand, rock, and not much else. Granted, he saw trees whenever he traveled west, but Arya promised a picnic by a babbling brook, and who could resist talking water? Hearing Arya laugh at that was music to his ears.

Once they're out of sight of the fort, Gendry gets off his beast of burden, and sits behind Arya on her mount, just to be closer to her. For a while, they talk about their respective lives on the Wall (or at sea, in Gendry's case). Before long, Gendry's hands start wandering her body. Arya, far from minding, slows the horse's pace, and leans back into Gendry's chest.

Bringing his head closer to her, he nips at her ear, causing her to moan appreciatively. Fondling her breasts, and biting at her throat, he's rewarded when Arya arches her back and brings her butt closer to him, creating blissful friction on his crotch. Shifting in the saddle, he finds a good balance to grind back, and they both groan with pleasure.

Upping the game, Gendry takes off a glove, replacing the naked hand at the heat between her thighs. He gives her a few rubs there, smiling as one of her arms reaches behind his head, anchoring him to her, or was it to anchor her to him? Either way, with the new purchase she flexes her hips to greater the friction at her juncture, almost raising her whole body off the horse, but for her feet in the stirrups.

His own need swells, but her wanton shamelessness makes him laugh, able to ignore his cock for now. He fingers her waistband, teasing as she literally growls at the loss. "Does Nymeria get hot when her mistress does?" He huskily asks into her ear.

"No!" She pants, frustrated, "It's only the other way around. Now..." and impatiently she grabs his hand, and with her other hand unlaces her breeches. Within a second, she's shoving his hand down her own breeches, guiding his fingers to her bundle of nerves. Yelping at the contact, she again raises her hips. Once she's content he won't stop this time, she brings her hand back to his head, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Languidly, he slides his fingers down her slit, finding copious amounts of wetness there, and bringing them back up to her pearl, rubbing it some more. "Please!" She whispers to the world at large, eyes closing and mouth open in pleasure, all of which he can see from over her shoulder. Looking down her body, seeing the swell of her breasts rise and fall as she pants, his one arm circling her waist, and his other arm disappearing down her pants, her legs flanked by his, straddling her horse; he momentarily smirks at the naughtiness of it, and he can't wait for her to ride him next.

Looking back to her groin, he goes about fingering her in earnestness. He alternates between slow and fast, between thrusting fingers into her twat and rubbing her, and before long, she upgrades from moaning to screaming in pleasure. At one point she flexes her thighs in instinct, causing the horse to confusedly trot a few yards. The jolting sensations cause her to completely break in ecstasy, and it gets Gendry harder as well.

Coming down from her high, Arya has presence of mind to slow the horse down again, but not much to move from her spot on his chest, and he doesn't move his hands from her either. They turn their heads to look at each other, seeing the same lust in each other's eyes, panting their desires into each other's faces.

Arya tries to maneuver his head closer to hers, but he removes his hands from her, and grabs at both of hers, bringing them in front of her. Normally, he'd walk away from any woman trying to kiss him, but Arya drew him in, and he couldn't quit her. So much, he knew that she would succeed in claiming his lips, and he'd be her's forever. He was eager for it, he realized, but couldn't let go of his habits just yet.

Dismounting from the horse, and ignoring her confused face, he grabs her around the waist and helps her come down as well. He takes a step from her, making sure she watches as he starts to undress, first with the clothes covering his torso, then his boots. Lastly, he discards his breeches. He starts stroking his cock with one hand, grabs her shoulder with his other, and nudges her down to her knees, where she goes willingly.

"Kiss me." He commands. And she does, at his tip, before licking it, going down and back up its length. Groaning, he grasps her head, one hand caressing her cheek, the other grabbing at her hair.

When she next licks near the top, he flexes hands and hips, bringing his length into her mouth. Groaning at the heat, he moves to thrust again, and she relaxes her throat accommodatingly. Coming out of her mouth, he shudders feeling her tongue lick him. Feeling close, he quickly thrusts back in, jolting when he feels her hands on his balls, fondling them.

Arya knows he's just about to burst, so she swats away his arms and moves away from him.

"Fuck!" He swears. "What the hell?"

Unperturbed, Arya starts stripping. He watches her, dazed, trying to finish himself off with his hands and being thoroughly denied completion. Anger flits through him, but so does lust for her now bared body. "Kiss me." she demands.

His face contorting in anger, he stalks to her, trying to intimidate her, but she stands her ground, glaring right back at him. Growling, he shoves her to the ground, but she grabs at him, causing him to fall on top of her. He's unprepared for it, so she's able to continue the momentum, stopping only when she was straddling his waist.

He goes to lift her hips, thought to bring her on his cock, but she uses leverage to deny him. "Kiss me!" She yells.

He punches her in the face, stunning her, and rolls them around. However, she's faster at recovery then he thought, and just continued the momentum, and they ended up where they started, him on his back. She punches his jaw this time, impressing and arousing him some more, then she hastily grabs his head roughly, going in for the kiss.

"No." He whispers, placing one hand on her lips. She can see the anger in his eyes, but it isn't as it was before. He wants her still, his hardness nestled behind her butt, so she steels her resolve. "I won't let you fuck me unless I can kiss you, Gendry."

They stare at each other, at an impasse. They could fight all day over it, he could probably overpower her if he kept trying, but then she would be furious at him. He had done it to Jeyne, when she tried to kiss him for a second time, but now they no longer fucked, and he wasn't regretful over it. But, this was Arya. There would never be another like her; feisty, wise, battle hardened... Her wetness pools on his stomach, and his member is throbbing, it's a wonder he can think at all.

Lowering his gaze from her angry eyes to her plump lips, and then back to her steel gaze, he knows he has lost. He takes a second to get used to the idea of being claimed, instead of him claiming her, and he figures it's appropriate that the only woman he would kiss would be the one that had beaten him to submission (not that he complained too much). Moment of contemplation over, he grabs her head and meets her halfway, crushing their lips together.

At her gasp of surprise, he thrusts his tongue in her mouth. Quickly recovering, she starts battling him back, tongues fighting for dominance. There might have been a few bites in there, but that could have been his inexperience in kissing.

Moaning into his mouth, placing her hands at his shoulders, he feels her raising herself off him, and feels her heat above his aching cock. He breaks the kiss, whispering "Yes." He thrusts up, but she stays above him, tut-tutting.

"Kiss me." she whispers back. He surges up to kiss her again, and she sits down on him. Groaning, he grabs her hips with one hand, using the other to brace himself on the ground, and he relishes the contact.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he's sure it's so he doesn't break the kiss. He wouldn't break it; he couldn't get enough of her mouth now. He smirks into the kiss, and she smiles back.

When she grinds into him, he raises his hips impatiently. Hard at keeping himself in a seated position, he cannot help her with her thrusts. Concentrating instead on the kisses, and the feel her breasts smashed against him, he moans when she falls down on him again.

The next time, he meets her with a thrust, and they both groan into the kiss. Moving his hand from her hip to her ass, he strokes it, feeling it flex as she raises herself again. "Yes." she whispers into his mouth, moving her hands to scratch at his head. "Mmm." He replies, before they meet again, groaning anew.

As she continues to bounce on him, and now messily kissing him, he reaches down for her juices, and caresses her ass with it. He feels her shiver as the cold air meets the wetness there, causing her to slow down, curious as to what he is doing. Up to her arse hole he goes, and thrusts a finger in.

"AAh!" She screams, breaking the kiss, arching up and into him, almost making him loose his seated position. Excited, she thrusts again down upon him, and again, and faster, him unable to do more than sit there, and let his finger do the thrusting into her back entrance.

Breasts bouncing in front of him, the sight of his cock disappearing into her, the dominance he has over her excitement, he wonders at how he is able to hold off from finishing. The tightening of his balls comes upon him; he knows he's almost there.

Leaning in to her neck exposed to him with her head thrown back, he bites her. "Ungh!" is her reply, and the next second brings her release, loud and long moan filling the air.

Stilling his finger in her, he nevertheless grinds up, finding his release in her tightening cunt a moment later, stream after stream of cum hitting her walls. She shivers with a few aftershocks, hugging him again close to her.

Finally spent, he falls back to the forest floor, bringing her down with him.

When their breaths even out, he continues to stroke her back, small mewls of contentment emanating from her. He has never heard her so softly, so much as a woman in love, and not the wanton girl he was used to, and it brings an ache to his heart.

"There will never be another." He whispers.

"What?" She murmurs against his chest.

Fingering her chin, bringing her face towards his, he kisses her anew, putting all his energies into it, letting her know of his love. And, unless he was very much mistaken, she was doing the same.


	17. Meera and Brandon the Younger

**Author's Notes: Whelp, I know nothing about paralysis, or paralyzed person's relationships, so forgive me if I get anything wrong, or if it comes off as stupid.**

MEERA AND BRANDON THE YOUNGER

Meera loved Bran (the younger), and thought it a great blessing to have him in her life. He treated her as an equal, with respect, and loved her in return.

Bran thought Meera was the kindest woman he ever knew. She never treated him like an inferior, and she always had creative ways for them to do things. She loved talking to him about anything, even if it was silly stories about dragons and knights, and always included him in her daily tasks.

They would laugh, and cry, together, they would ride horses together (in saddles fashioned by Maester Tyrion), and rarely would anyone see one without the other.

Meera had been a lord's daughter, but a lord so relaxed, that he did not mind that his daughter went to Old Town to become wise, nor did he mind that she decided to join the Night's Watch. Her father had plenty of sons, and loved all of his children enough to allow her freedoms.

It was in Old Town where Meera had met Bran (the younger). He was already crippled by that time, and was still bitter about it. Being closest in age among the students, however, unconsciously pushed them to interact with each other more then with anyone else. Years later, they both believe it was divine providence that brought them together.

Bran had sworn he'd go back to the Wall, to family and friends, as soon as possible. Especially since his half-brother, Rickon, nearly broke Bran's arm trying to keep him there. He left Old Town when he was four and ten, a scant seven years since arriving. The Wall was close enough to Meera's own family that she readily agreed to go back with Bran. She had not forged a chain in those seven years, that being reserved for Maester's in truth, but she was welcome as a forester, tracker, and warrior in her own right.

Bran was assigned to Oakenshield, and Meera followed him there. Bran was Maester there, with a special dispensation to continue his training at the Wall. She became his shadow: a sworn shield of sorts.

Little did he need her to defend him, but he found it helpful to have her around to help him with things he could not do unless standing. Plus, neither could begrudge the excuse to stay in each other's company.

Meera knew Bran had wanted to be a warrior, and would sometimes, in bleak moments, blame Jarl for the fall from what was supposed to be a leisurely climb: the fall that caused him to become cripple. Bran sometimes felt that he couldn't be counted on to do anything, and would feel guilt since the anger towards Jarl was unjustified; the man had lost his life. Meera would leave him alone at those times.

Bran knew Meera, and understood her urges for a more physical relationship. Or even a proper one, despite his Maester and Night's Watch vows against taking marital ones. She was older then he was, around nine and ten or twenty, and though she never thought of marriage and sex before, it came upon her unawares at how much she would wish for a family, or at how much her body wish for fulfillment. When it became too much to think about joining as man and wife, or of ever holding a babe in her arms, or (most ashamedly) of wanting to slake her lust, she'd fall into despair or anger and would be halfway to the Hearth, before turning around, in even more shame. Bran would leave her alone at those times.

After the worst was over, they would spend time cheering the other up. If Bran were down, they would have mock jousts on horseback (with the modified saddle), sometimes even including the men of Oakenshield. They all (except Lord Joffrey) respected and liked their Maester.

If Meera were feeling low, he'd fondle her to completion, even if it weren't enough. She'd backwards straddle his lap, and he'd bring his fingers around to her lower lips, finger-fucking her to release. Always was she wet and ready for him at these times, though he could never rise to the occasion.

Now past his five and tenth name day, they had heard of Rickon's wolf-induced lust, though only three and ten. Summer had mounted Lady a few times already, and even mounted some normal wolves that prowled the Wall as well; they had concluded that though Bran was bonded to Summer, there was nothing that Summer's lusts could do for Bran's paralysis, and he was no longer hopeful. At most, he would feel more affection then was normal for Meera, and would take notice of her curves; but nothing else occurred.

And then something wonderful happened: the night of the eclipse came, and so did he.

The maesters, scholars of science, observed the heavens and noted that the eclipse was nothing more then a mathematical and normal occurrence: rare, but normal.

The priests of Rhollor condemned eclipse, saying it was doom made visible; the swallowing of the sun would be followed by the doom of winter for the world, from which no one would survive.

The brothers and sisters of the Seven swore it was some portent, demanding that more people swell their ranks.

The Old Gods whispered in their leaves, for anyone who would listen, that indeed the eclipse was magical, and would grant the most worthy special boons.

Though Bran was a maester, and believed in the math of the heavens, he had special favor of the Old Gods, and he was granted a boon. They had already given him his wolf, Summer, in preparation for this day.

The day of the eclipse, Bran and Meera brought Summer to the Hearth, ready to help Lady in her heat again. They barely petted Summer away to do his thing, when there was a clamor among the patrons. Following everybody to the front of the establishment, they witnessed the start of the eclipse.

The sun was halfway hidden, when Bran felt that Summer was starting to grow. Almost conversationally, he told Meera that the wolves started. She nods.

He almost has his attention back to the eclipse, when he can feel a blood rush to his manhood. Groaning at the sensation, he grabs for Meera's wrist, glad that peoples' attentions are so riveted by the eclipse that he can get away with his lusty display.

"What's wrong?" Meera asks, noticing his distress.

Looking at her, he's stunned to silence by her beauty. It was always there, but never had it hit him this hard as to how much he loved, and wanted, her.

She looks over his body, searching for what might be wrong. He hears her gasp, and knows she is getting the idea. Tentatively, she reaches to his groin, almost shyly rubbing his length. She looks to him in amazement, and puzzlement. "How?"

"It doesn't matter." He says. Later, he would wrack his brains in figuring it out, but in the haze of the moment, all he has a mind for is claiming her. It's a miracle of sorts that he's able to tell her to get themselves to a private room.

Door closed, he grabs her hips and maneuvers her to straddle his lap. She giggles, but he silences her with a needy kiss. Before she has presence of mind to return the favor, he had his mouth on her jaw, and had plans to make his way to her throat.

Never has Bran been so insistent, that Meera is barely able to control the sharp jolts of pleasure that run through her body, causing her to moan with everything he does.

Biting her neck, he feels satisfaction of marking her as his, before roaming his hands under her tunic. Meeting the swell of her breasts, nipples hardening, he feels his blessedly hard cock go even harder at the feel of her. She is perfect for him, and to him, that he moves to kiss her lips again.

Arms around his shoulders, she welcomes the chance to return the kiss, tongues dancing and teeth grazing lips.

Overwhelmed with the sensations, she arches into him, grinding him in the process. Though he has grown hard, he still has little leg and hip movement, but little does it deter their session.

She moves her hips again, loving the friction between their sexes. "More."

Bran laughs. "You'll have to remove your breeches for me get to you."

She blushes in embarrassment, smiling at the silliness of it all. They untangle themselves from each other, and she stands. Almost in tandem to they take off their tunics, and unlace their breeches. Bran is content to leave his on, as Meera bares her sleek legs. She comes back to Bran, placing her hands on his shoulders, and straddles him again. Almost reverently do they explore each other, almost as if the heat from earlier had dissipated.

She stroked his upper body. Though he has always granted her pleasure, never had he had any reason for her to caress him. He is not muscular, and is young besides, but he keeps himself healthy and lean, and she marvels at his heated skin, the smooth strength of it.

Nor had she ever seen his cock before. The heat from before returns full force looking at it, hard and ready for her. Bringing herself closer, she rubs her sopping cunt over it, readying them both for the next step.

When she raises herself to her knees over him, hand stroking his member before placing it at her entrance, he hugs her closer, face relishing the feel of her pert breasts.

Then she lowers herself, bit-by-bit, getting used to the feel of him. When she grits her teeth and stops, Bran feels a stab of worry, and moves his hands to her face. He barely has a question formed on his lips, when she falls the rest of the way down, a barrier being breached that causes her to cry out in pain.

A part of Bran has always acknowledged that he would have rather her had fulfillment then not, but another part had been a jealous paramour, always worried that perhaps she had gone to Hearth, despite her saying otherwise (not that he would hold it against her). Full implications would hit him later, after the wolf-haze left, but all the sympathy he could offer was to wipe her tears away. He almost licked them away, but was able to ignore that animalistic instinct.

To distract from his need, though, he does sniff at her neck, taking in her musky and earthen smells. Kissing her neck, he's rewarded by her sighs, and goes to mark her again as his.

Gasping at his bite, Meera arches in pleasurable pain. Bran was a generous kisser, but never before had he done such, and twice in one sitting! Curiously, it turns her on rather then not. There's a brief thought that it was Summer's influence, then she moves their faces for a proper kiss.

The pleasure overtaking the pain, she swivels her hips curiously. Rewarded both with a spike of pleasure and his growl of appreciation, she does it again.

The third time she does it, his hands caress her breasts, before moving south again to her hips. Growling as she teases him with another grinding motion, he grabs at her hips and lifts her up, surely leaving bruises in the process. Maneuvering her hands to his shoulders, she smiles at him. He returns a smirk as he forces her down on all of him.

Crying out in surprise, her smile becoming an open mouth of joy. The next time he urges her up, she helps him, raising herself the rest of the way, and moving down before he has a chance to force her.

Quickly getting used to the rhythms, Meera bounces upon Bran repeatedly, hoping this miracle lasts, but unable to hold back. She feels his hands everywhere, mapping that which he was already familiar with, moaning loudly for him to know she loves it.

Distantly, they hear the wolves howl, Bran grabbing her ass to him and thrusting up from his seat. She gasps in both pleasure and surprise. They look at each other in stunned silence, momentarily still.

"Oh, Bran." She mumbles, unsure smile on her face.

"Meera." He whispers, lowering his gaze to her lips, moving in to claim them.

Almost unwillingly, she breaks the kiss, "Can you do it again?"

Tears come unbidden to his eyes, "No. But, Meera, I'm dying here still." He smiles, a paradox to his tears; to feel such strength in his legs for that one instance when his wolf came, but for it to leave him again.

His cock, however, still was hard. Meera smiles at him, one hand brushing his wet cheek, the other embracing him around his shoulders. She starts bouncing again, thankful for the strength of her own legs after years and years of tracking.

This time they do not break eye contact: pants mingling together, and they watch the other as she rides out their completions.

Bran goes soft, and the world around them becomes light again. The eclipse is over, little to they care at the moment. They're content to just sit there, marveling at what just happened, enjoying each other's company.

**DVD extras: I totally had inspiration this week... for another chapter, which can't happen until later. This one started out great a few months ago, but just wouldn't be finished! So if it's not all that great, I feel bad, because I didn't really do my best with this one. Anywho... reviews? And thanks for those who have, you're all awesome. **

**2) Someone asked about this line in the previous chapter "There will never be another". He means no other women, not kisses. Conveniently, he kisses Arya right after saying the above statement. Hope that clears it up!**


	18. Cersei and Jamie

**Author's Notes: This almost was not posted, but it survived the chopping block. Mainly because I'm suffering writer's block for this story (all my inspiration is lighting up another story), and this was the chapter that was closest to being finished and edited. Hope it's enjoyed, even if it's not up to snuff! **

CERSEI AND JAMIE

In the end, Cersei wonders if Jamie had loved her only because she loved him. She did not doubt the love, only doubted that if things had been slightly different, they would still be together.

Such romantic nonsense was beneath her, at first. Her parents would have ended up together, no matter what, there was never any question of those two being soul mates. How was she, their only daughter, to know that that's what she wanted herself, until it wasn't possible anymore? Until she realized, too late, that Jamie's soul mate was another woman?

Cersei followed Jamie to the Wall; left her parent's modest home and honest betrothal to follow a dream: to be a warrior and to have the man she loved, not one that she was handed over to. She was a mature maiden of five and ten, and he a man grown of eight and ten.

Attracted to his sun-like features, his carefree smile, and jaunty attitude, Cersei cornered his drunken self after a night of village revelry, and gave up her maidenhood to him. She did all the work, taking off his black clothing, kissing him, making him hard, and riding him like a horse. It was a wonder that he was able to grasp her hips and meet her at all, inexperienced and drunk as he was. She imagines that otherwise, he might have been able to keep his Brother's Vow.

The next morning, they awoke naked amongst the hay of the barn, and he started to apologize, before she silenced him with a kiss. They realized they wanted more, him with his morning wood and her still wet. This time, he took charge, laying her on her back and thrusting into her. Over and over again he plowed into her, giving her more orgasms then she thought possible, before he released his own pleasure.

He didn't even have to ask her to go, she was packed the next day and when the crows left for the north again, she was sitting behind him on his horse, with no regrets, except to see her mother cry.

It was like a dream. They fucked liked rabbits, years before the Hearth was "erected", and he taught her swordplay and archery. She had seriously thought of taking the black herself, to be part of a brotherhood of warriors respected.

The dream changed then; she became pregnant, despite the moon tea she regularly drank, and Jamie wouldn't let her destroy the life within her that had miraculously arrived.

He, of course, made it up to her by giving her wild pregnancy sex. Her sensitive body craved it, and he more than willingly gave himself to her. She'd tell him to be gentle, but he didn't listen. He'd bite her enlarged breasts, and would harshly rub her bundle of nerves, till she was coming without the aid of his cock.

She'd hardly come down from that, before he'd shove his dick into her. He'd start slow, to get her ready again, and then he'd pick up the pace. The next orgasm would be even more intense then the first and she'd be crying his name for the whole Wall to hear.

Her pregnancy happened three times, and all three times he did as before. She gave him two sons and a daughter: Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. She heeded his advice to stay off the Wall, and became a matron of sorts to all the Children of the Wall. She even helped to manage accounts for various people of the "Gift". She still practiced weaponry, so she never regretted this new role.

But it was not enough. Jamie loved Cersei for their shared history. But he loved Brienne, for no reason then that they had fought each other, saved each other, and mutually respected the other.

When one's life is in another's hands, Cersei supposes, it makes bonds strong. There was proof enough between men posted on the Wall, and between women as well, but rarely did they post mixed sexes together, for proprietary reasons. Cersei herself had witnessed the arrival of a barely conscious Ser Lady Brienne, and a maimed Ser Jamie unable to properly carry his comrade in arms across the Wall in to safety. He had refused to leave Brienne's side, and spoke of how they both owed the other their lives. She would get the full story another time but then, there was no more to tell, until he was sure Brienne would live.

Cersei was not a healer, but she helped with both their injuries, going so far as to carry messages from one to the other, much to her embarrassment, at first. They were embarrassed too, but then it became normal. She wished she could feel anger, and jealousy. She left her home for this man, and for what, for this ugly woman to supplant her? But all she felt was sadness; not even a sense of loss, for she never had him fully, at any time.

In another life, Cersei would feel hurt and betrayal, anger and murderous rage. As it is, he never asked her to follow him, never asked her to marry him, never lived with her for any amount of time. She kept waiting, accepting what he gave without asking for more, and that's probably what doomed her.

But she has a wonderful life, she can admit that. She has three children, two who love her unconditionally and seek her for advice still. She might not have respect as a warrior, but she has the respect of both the Wall and the Gift. She might not have the love of the man she would pick out for herself, but whom has she ever really loved beyond all measure? There was still time, perhaps another man would come into her life who would sweep her off her feet for true.

They three settled into an uneasy friendship, but it grew as the moons went by. There was a love of affection, if not anything more, and even Brienne could be in Cersei's presence alone without awkwardness and tension. Sometimes, Cersei swears she and they are the only three who are aware that the Maiden Warrior and the Handless Slayer were fucking, little did they publicly display affection. Little does it matter, she supposes.

Jamie, without his sword hand, manned the Wall no longer. He stayed at the Hearth in an unofficial guardian role, and spent more time with his younger children.

Brienne never could give him children, but gave Jamie all her heart, which he returned wholly. Not knowing what else to do, she stayed at the Wall, in time earning a leadership of one of the forts.

Cersei protected and reared the Children of the Wall. The unclaimed, the bastards, the wildling lost. She was a true lioness when it came to her young; and no man could tame her wild heart.

**DVD extra/commentary: In an effort to find sympathy for Cersei when I didn't want to; this happened. I bet, if she lived in a more modern setting, she could be a righteous feminist babe. Alas, she lives in a medieval setting, where all women are expected to be are pretty faces and/or rich, or nothing. Poor girl wasn't allowed to play with the guys and no one takes her seriously, D'OH! Was it any wonder that she became bitter and bitchy? **

**That said, hope this chapter was enjoyed, and has some sort of weight to Cersei's characterization in this universe... Reviews? Pwetty Pwease?**

**THE CHALLENGE: for another author to write a modern ish (ish meaning anytime from the 1800s to now, writer's choice) story featuring a feminist Cersei, that has her fighting for her right to party... er... do anything a man can do. (I post this here because I do not tumble nor journal live... little that anyone would read here. Meh.)**


	19. Joffrey and Margaery

**Author's Notes: This was a long time in coming, that when I finally finished it, I put it ahead of another chapter. I always knew what I wanted for Joffrey since the beginning of this story, but not how to work it. I almost despaired finishing the story without this written. But, yea! **

**WARNINGS (for part two) : Mentions of rough sex. Character death scene.**

JOFFREY AND MARGAERY

PART ONE

Joffry had been a little better to deal with after the incidents with the ex-knight, Barristan Selmy, and with Val; but the change was not much. He still refused to do his commander's duties, leaving it to Sandor or Maester Bran (the Younger), to run the base. It was absurd, Sandor wasn't even a crow, and the men at Oakenshield not only followed his orders, but respected him too. Bran also had more respect as a cripple then Joffrey ever would. Most had half a mind to believe that either one was better fit for the job instead of "Accidental Commander Joffrey".

It was a fluke, a damn joke. Everyone knew the story of how Joffrey became commander. The previous Commander of Oakenshield, a fat slob who had once been a fierce fighter, had died due to a bad hunting accident, and the men were voting for their new commander. Nigh on a fortnight had passed, and no consensus had been reached.

Joffrey, now only seven and ten, was obviously a poor candidate a year ago, the time of the incident. But he had put his name in, regardless. He made pretty speeches that no one remembered, he boasted strength and skill when everyone there had beaten him in sparing practice, he claimed a rapport with the wildlings, and he hadn't even met one yet: one big fat liar.

On a night of drunken revelry, one crow joked that he would vote for Joffrey, just to shake things up. Another picked up the joke, shouting to the hall at large that Joffrey would be best for them, "Lord of the Lies!" By the end of the night, they were singing his lies to the tune of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair".

The next morning, the hung-over crows found themselves, yet again, voting. It was easy to think that one man might place Joffrey's symbol (for those who couldn't use letters) on the maester's parchment, in order to create a few chuckles. This had been going on for so long, that a good joke was needed. So easy to believe, that it was only a small step up to believe that ten or more would think the same.

Otherwise, it would have been inconceivable to believe that Joffrey landed the role of Commander of Oakenshield by three fourths of the majority.

That night, they all sobered upon hearing Maester Brandon proclaim Joffrey their new Commander.

PART TWO

Ser Barristan had spared Commander Joffrey of Oakenshield his life after a harsh lesson, but Joffrey had not been spared ridicule by his garrison, or by his second, Sandor, and most definitely not by the whores of the Last Home and Hearth (or first, depending which way you were traveling). Anytime he went back, he if tried anything, he was summarily grabbed by any Crow who happened to be in the vicinity and dumped out into the snow. It was humbling.

It galled at him, and chafed at him. He tried the nice route once or twice, and just couldn't get off. That just made him angrier. It got so bad that he started raping some of the women of the black. Though it was rough as he wished, they fought back to his disappointment. He ended up with some black eyes and cracked ribs. It was sad, had he reflected on it; any of the women of the black would be more then a match for him. It was a miracle that he survived this long; his station would not protect him indefinitely.

Then there were rumors circulating that there was a new woman at the Hearth who liked it rough, that she had left her cushiony life wanting something more exhilarating and life affirming. Taking a chance, Joffrey asked for her.

Margaery, ex lady, new whore, was everything Joffrey could want. Except for the fact that she inexplicably became friends with Sansa, she was beautiful, experienced, mature, and masochistic.

She gasped beautifully when he choked her. She smiled coyly when he tied her to the bed. When he entered her ass, or smacked it, she offered no complaints. When he asked her if she liked it, or asked her who was her master, she always answered satisfactorily.

She presented her jewels proudly, wearing no scarves or high collared cloaks to hide bruises, nor powders to dim the purple and blue makeup surrounding her eyes. Red and swollen bracelets adorned her wrists and ankles, while she gracefully presented a fashionable new way to walk. Always was a smile on her face when Joffrey was around.

They had been fucking for a moon or so, when she shyly asked to spend the night. Smiling indulgently, he kissed his affirmation, adding that she must not be late.

They started with dinner. There she proudly offered a wine from her home, a special brew of amazing spiciness and flavor. He agreed it tasted superb. They drank with the appetizer (Bravossi brushetta). It went well with the main dish (roasted duck with a Tyroshi spice glaze). The desert was to die for; the Valerian volcano cake literally smoked in their mouths with the addition of the wine.

Joffrey told Margaery that it couldn't have gone better. She agreed. He went to kiss her, but all of a sudden felt woozy. "Ugh. Must have been something I ate." And he doubled over with cramps. "Do you feel anything?"

"No. I spent my life building up an iocaine immunity." She said.

Aghast, he looked to her, and then to the wine flagon. Rising from his spot, he knocked the table over, before stumbling out into the hall. "Maester!" he yelled. "Poison! Help!"

Margaery followed him, watching as he stumbled from his room over to the Maester's quarters. They were empty. Gasping, he turned and glared at Margaery, who only offered a stoic face.

Joffrey made his way throughout Oakenshield. At first he felt only woozy and dizzy. Then his vision got blurry around the edges, and his extremities started buzzing with pins and needles. His mind was dulling, and he couldn't figure out where he was headed. Margaery maneuvered him, little that he was aware at this point.

They found themselves at the top of the Wall. When Joffrey exited the winch, he had blood gurgling from his mouth, and he could barely stand. He saw the Maester, Bran the Younger, sitting in his chair, Meera standing behind him, and he lurched towards him. "Help!" he begged, a spittle of blood accompanying this plea. Bran looked with sympathy, but did nothing.

Falling upon his knees, Joffrey crawled along the Wall, dimly aware that his soldiers were lined up and flanking him, a dozen or so braziers outlining their features. He grasped the cloak of the next man, seeing that it was in fact one of the Wildling women turned crow, and she just kicked him, yanking her cloak from his grasp.

The next man did not turn from him, but grasped his shoulders and lifted him. Joffrey's hope was short lived, Sandor had been the one to pick him up, and there was only a scowl on his face. His second-in-command whispered, "For Sansa." and Joffrey knew he was doomed. No one would help him. Swaying on his feet, he glanced at the blurry figures of his men, and heard whispers of all those he had wronged, though he caught very few names.

His heartbeat was slowing, and his chest was hurting. Ragged breath rattling through the blood lining his throat, he turned once more to the woman he had started to feel for. "For me." She said.

"You..." cough "Nothing?"

Coldly she looked at him. The Stranger himself could not have been more hauntingly beautiful, blurred vision flecked with moonlight was she. Falling to his knees yet again, his heart stopped beating, and as the last of his blood finished traveling through his arteries, he heard, "Nothing."

He couldn't hold himself up anymore. He wanted to live badly, but his own body fell to the side, defeated.

Accidental Commander Joffrey accidentally fell off the Wall. Or so it was reported.

**Post Script: His death scene in the book was neither long enough nor repentant enough (in my opinion). My only issue for this chapter was who does him in, and how. Might as well make it a variation of the book's scene, if all else fails. It was always going to be an "accident" though. I hope this was satisfactory? I certainly enjoyed killing him! *wicked grin*. **


	20. The Hound and His Wolves

**Author's Notes: Sandor is an ASSHOLE. But he's the right kind of asshole. But... How does one write about an asshole being a good guy, before he was a good guy? Where is the line that he would not have crossed? And he's a wildling, who have different rules then southrons, so it's not like he could purchase a fuck, GAH! This was hard to write, but not for lack of inspiration, just trying to keep Sandor in character without going too far off the deep and evil end... I hope it's enjoyed, but I apologize if some do not appreciate. Also, I apologize for the fight scene, which might not be that great.**

**It was almost two chapters, but then I thought it would be a nice contrast between Sandor the Wildling, and Sandor at the Wall. And part one was too short, anyway.**

**THE HOUND AND LADY-WOLF**

Lady was in heat, and they had brought Summer from Castle Black to placate her. Summer was the gentlest wolf, and least likely to ever mount Nymeria, so whenever Lady, the gentlest female, was in heat, the maesters usually brought Summer around to mount her.

Not that Sandor cared in the least about that, he only cared that Sansa was also in heat. She would become a different person, a frenzied and wanton woman so unlike Sansa, that he almost didn't want this woman who was not his lover. Almost. She was still Sansa, in the way that she allowed no man to touch her except him when the wolf was upon her. They even told him about the time he was away ranging, when she had spent the whole time in heated agony and refused any help. For that, he would want her too.

No woman wanted him without pay, but for her to freely want him in her sane state, and to ONLY want HIM while in _wolf lust_? It was a double dose of affection that spoke volumes to him. So it would be with wild abandon that he would take her from behind, grasping her hair, bruising her hips, cussing in her ear, and relishing the satin skin of her backside against his chest and groin, while she just moaned and growled and whined like a bitch. He never felt more like a dog then in these moments, and he reveled in it, bringing back memories of old conquests and pleasures he had set-aside for her.

He could hear the direwolf, Lady, nearby, and would catch how both females seemed to match sounds. But Lady would always finish first, and Sansa would slump down to her elbows, one part of her sated, but not the other.

He would pull out then, and turn her on her back and plunge right back in. He'd lean over her, search out her eyes, see them go from lusty glaze to blue love, and he'd have Sansa back. As much as he liked it rough, he liked her more. She'd understand if he had kept going, but he knows it's better this way, for both of them.

He'd grind into her, get her ready again, and he'd know when as she reaches up to caresses his scarred face. And when he goes to thrust, she'd meet him, again and again. Most times, she'd pull his face down to kiss him, and she'd taste sweeter then any summer wine. When they reach completion together, hugging and groping all the while, he'd hear Lady howl, knowing that her other half was sated as well.

**THE HOUND AND THE WOLF-BITCH **

**WARNINGS: DUBIOUS CONSENT, UNDERAGE, FIRST TIME**

Her first friend, his last murder. That's what brought them together. They were born years apart, and raised in different clans north of the Wall, but had never interacted before her fourth and tenth name day. He knew not of her existence, but all knew him: the meanest old dog north the Wall at only five and twenty.

Arya and Sandor, today, don't really like each other all that much. If they had talked things out that first time they met, they might recognize that Sandor was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that Arya was too quick to judge, and too slow to forgive.

Sandor loved to fight, and did not have too much aversion to killing. He earned the name "Hound" not by being good at what he does (though he certainly was that), but because he loved it too much.

His own counsel he kept, and his opinions as well, but to find purpose and reason for the sword, he loyally followed the leadership of others, quick to obey and always without question.

Mycah (Arya's only friend at the time) happened to live in the same clan as Arya. He was nothing more then a boy who befriended her when they were young, who continued to fight with Arya after Jon the Snow Wolf had left; and the Hound ran Mycah down as if he had done something wrong. In reality, he was just another unfortunate victim in one clan's raid of another. Only after Sandor made it south of the Wall would he never murder again. Kill in battle or defense, yes; murder unarmed and innocent people, no.

However, Arya saw it then, and anger festered in her heart that couldn't be assuaged unless the Hound died himself.

The girl, with the help of her wolf, Nymeria, tracked the Hound successfully, and when the opportune moment occurred, attacked him.

Sandor's saving grace was that Arya still had much to learn. Hearing a twig snap, he turned toward the sound. Sentinel trees hid his pursuer from view, but had he not turned he would have missed the sight of the silent wolf charging him. Too late to draw forth his sword, he aims a punch for when she lunges at him, knocking her squarely on the side of the head, just beyond her gaping maw.

Forced to the side, but not terribly hurt, the wolf shakes her head while turning to face the man again. He himself has turned to face a girl trampling from her cover, small rusted sword raised to strike him. He grabs the blade on its swing, grimacing in pain as it tears his glove and bites his palm, but nevertheless does not let go. Quickly, he wretches the weapon from the girl's grip, and simultaneously punches her jaw. Though not with the full strength of his dominant hand, the girl still reels with the impact, falling to the ground with a gasp, but not in defeat. He flips the blade to grasp the hilt, readying to attack.

However, distracted by the girl, the wolf is able to jump upon the man's back, causing him to topple to the ground. She goes in to snap his neck between her teeth, but barely scratches her target as the moving warrior turns and elbows the beast off his back. Continuing his movement, he swings the other arm, still holding the girl's weapon. It slashes at the wolf, causing her to yelp and hop away.

He regains his feet, only to be knocked again as the girl crashes into his midsection. She climbs atop him, swinging madly, landing many blows in appropriately painful spots. However, Sandor did not survive the wild north beyond the Wall by sheer luck, and little did her punches really injure him. Bucking and swinging, he turns the table, now atop the girl and he head butts her; she goes unconscious.

He looks to the whimpering wolf, and then assesses the damage of his self. The palm that grabbed the blade is profusely bleeding, and is the worst of his injuries, despite the fact that his head hurts more with the punches she landed there. He wraps his hand with a strip of torn cloth, damning his body to another ugly scar, and retrieves the blade that caused the injury.

Fully intending to kill his assailant with her own weapon, he is surprised when the wolf, limping and slow, moves atop her mistress. Rarely has he ever seen such loyalty from an animal; he knows, he's had a few himself. A godless and callous man, he nevertheless takes the sign at face value, and decides he'll reward the faithful animal and not harm it, or her master.

He cannot let this go without getting back at them however. Anger now coursing through his veins after the adrenaline wore off, he snaps the girl's small blade in half over his knee, and throws it aside. Muttering obscenities, grabbing at the rope off his supplies, he starts tying the wolf and the girl up, one too injured to protest much and the other still unconscious.

He does not know what to do with the girl and her wolf, but nigh on a moon's turn has come and gone, and they're still in his possession. All three have more or less healed from the attack, with nothing but faded bruises or scabbed wounds well on their way to scarring. The girl, Arya he learns, is still bound by rope. The wolf, Nymeria he learns, will not run away without her mistress. Much to his amusement, and Arya's anger, the wolf won't attack him, somehow having his respect.

He has been making his way south, drawn to the Wall for some inexplicable reason. The life of a clan raider has become mundane, and the spoils of women and meager possessions do little to entice him anymore. He does not know what he'll find with the Crows, but he figures it doesn't hurt to look. He also does not know why he does not ditch the girl.

The anger that boils in him had been lessening before Ayra's attack, but now it is his constant companion. She does not cease to goad him, to ask questions, to damn him for killing her friend (little that he remembers such), to flaunt that she is the only woman around for many days ride. She is not even pleasing to his eyes, and is too young besides; though he doubts not that some men would adore her pixie face and lean body. Hells were he more desperate, he might even find her enticing; but he's not that far gone. Especially when all she moans about is some poxy faced son-of-a-whore.

One day he gets so fed up with her, questioning which whore ever birthed him, who probably was the only one to ever love his face, and going on to say he'd be lucky to earn enough coin to buy a willing cunt. She calls him an ugly brute... a rapist. He growls, it's true, but it just makes him hunger for the very things she's condemning him for.

They were widlings, and no wildling man paid for a wildling woman, nor would any wildling woman accept the money anyway. It was a take or die world out there, and he took. It was not for Arya to know that he left them alive, and cared for, unlike his brother. It was not for her to know that had his sister lived, he might have tried for a more willing woman than not. It was not for her to know that it was in his sister's memory that he was going south in the first place, for something better than the harshness of the north.

The last straw surpassed, Sandor gets up from where he was sitting and stands above where Arya is bound. She stops her tirade, gracing him with an ugly scowl upon her horse-life face. Leaning with one hand on the tree above her, he grins at her, rather menacingly, and uses his other hand to outline his cock underneath his furs and breeches.

Indignant and surprised, she can do no more then glare daggers at him as he starts rubbing himself. Up and down he goes, evil grin never leaving his face. She looks away for a moment, a remnant of her childlike sensibilities, before she turns back to face him, glare also persisting. A sliver of respect grows in him, but not much.

He takes a moment to take off his glove with his teeth, spitting it to the ground, before resuming. Widening his stance, he straddles over her body underneath him, slowly unlacing his breeches. He laughs at her when he she lowers her glare to his cock, eyes widening at the sight. "Please." She whispers, the meekest he's ever heard her, "Don't..."

"I'm not gonna rape you, scrawny assed bitch. Now shut up." She locks with his eyes again, glares back as well. Barring his teeth at her, he takes his weeping cock; slowly spreading it's wetness up his length. When he reaches his balls, he fondles them, growling and jerking his hips forward, and he's further gratified to she her cheeks go red. From mortification or from being turned on, he isn't sure, but he's positive she's uncomfortable, and he roughly laughs again.

She kicks him with her bound legs, but it does little to knock him down. Growling, he kicks her in her side, causing her to cough and roll to the side. "I see the wolf doesn't give up too easily." He rasps, "Too bad it doesn't do you any good. It didn't do your bastard 'Michael' ("Mycah!") any good, and it won't stop me from fucking with you. You think you're better then me? Fuck you! This world is harsh, and that poxy faced whore was lucky to leave before he got it worse then a clean death, which I know I gave." She hasn't looked back at him, and he's grateful. Now he can fuck himself without worry about her trying anything again.

"Fuck you." She whispers, almost broken, but still with a bite to it. He smirks, and just flexes his hips to his hand. He looks at her body, unable to really see anything through the layers of furs and crusted snow, and imagines it's something more then she really would be: big teats and round ass. Groaning, he almost closes his eyes in ecstasy, but he shouldn't take his attention off of her.

Thoughts of random women with wonderful attributes filter through his mind; thoughts of fleshy mounds, wet cunts, silken hair on heads and between legs, eyes with both fear and lust together. Never lips, though, and never any complete woman come to mind. Not that he needs it, what he has in mind is enough to have him fisting himself to completion.

Ropes of cum shoot from him, and hit his captor in the face, neck and torso. She screams indignantly, and it's almost what he would like a fucked woman to sound like, so it just makes his completion last longer. With a final twitch, he laughs in her face. He pays no mind to her growling anger, and just pushes away from the tree, reaching to lace himself up again.

They're a few days travel from the Wall; they can even see it looming from afar if the trees were thinned enough, when things change again. Ever since the incident when he fucked his hand over her prone body, she had been mercifully quiet. He still bound her hand and foot at night, but only after he was ready to sleep, after she had proved helpful with cooking meals.

Her glares persisted, and he sometimes swore it was her growling, and not her wolf, but they were linked, he learned. One might as well have been the other. Nymeria still would not attack him, but actually trusted her mistress in his presence alone, while she went off by herself for longer intervals. Occasionally, though, he heard scuffles in the woods, and howls, knowing that the direwolf was protecting them both from her wolf cousins, or bears.

One night, when Nymeria was there, he saw signs of impending heat. Turning to Arya, he asks, "How does she act" nodding towards the wolf, "when she needs to fuck?"

Arya looks at him suspiciously, "Why?"

"She's showing signs of heat. Tomorrow, or the next night perhaps, she'll want a pounding."

Arya's face pales at that, but offers a straight answer for once. "The wolves will fight for her. They'll ignore us, but be prepared for them to get real close." Sandor nods in acknowledgment.

So it's no surprise to him when, a few nights later, he sees male wolves smaller then Nymeria come out from the trees. They go so far as to walk not three paces past him and the camp fire as if they didn't exist. Wary in any case, he stands with a torch and moves closer to Arya, whom he had already tied up for the night. He finds it annoying to hear her whimpering; she was the one who knew what would happen, and apparently witnessed it before, her fear isn't helping his any.

Nymeria's tail is in the air, proudly displaying her hunger and sex, and her smaller cousins either sniff at her or break off to scuffle with one another; yips, barks, howling, and growls filling the air like some strange song. Some break off dejectedly towards the trees again, while others remain surrounding the direwolf. Eventually, it's down to a handful of wolves, and Nymeria growls in anticipation. It's then that he realizes that Arya isn't scared but aroused.

When her moan of lust breaks through her whimpers, he looks to her in surprise. Her eyes are closed, but her mouth is open, red tinting her cheeks. Her bound legs rub each other, obviously trying to alleviate some burn. Starting to get an inkling of just how far girl and wolf are linked, he kneels down and roughly thrusts a hand between her legs to rub along her sex. He pays little mind to her jolt and gasp, reveling in the heat he feels there.

Removing the hand, he places the torch aside and takes off his gloves. He ignores her pleas to untie her hands, not wanting her to take care of herself, leaving him to his hand again. She obviously isn't in her right mind, and would never take him otherwise, but he wouldn't say no to the chance of a sopping cunt, whether its mind wanted it or no.

Taking his dagger from his boot, he slashes at the ropes binding her ankles and knees, and then thrusts it into the ground. Instinctively, the girl plants her feet in the ground, and starts grinding her hips, begging for friction. Off to the side, he sees that a big wolf, only slightly smaller then the still growing Nymeria, has won the right to mate. He notices that the other wolves have left, and he doesn't have to worry about them changing their focus to him.

Grabbing Arya's thighs, he pulls her closer, rubbing his hardening member against her sex. Moaning, she somehow is able to again ask for the freedom of her hands, still bound behind her back.

He leans down, laughing in her ear, "My cock will be much better then your hands, bitch. You know you want it."

"Ugh, no!" Contrary to her words, she shamelessly rubs against him. He dry humps her for a few moments, before moving to take off her boots and breeches, leaving her bare ass upon the snowy ground. Little does he care for her clothing, but she has nothing else to wear, ripping would add insult to injury.

"Please! My hands!" She begs. Gutturally, he laughs, releasing his cock from confinement for the second time in her presence. "NO!" She screams, the same time lifting her hips towards him and back arched as if to present her breasts to him, covered and small though they are.

Off to the side, he hears the two wolves in the middle of their mating, but his focus takes in the girl before him. He has half a mind to fuck her like the bitch and dog they are, but dismisses it in favor of practicality. Leaving bruises on her thighs, he rubs his cock up and down her weeping cunt, before roughly shoving himself in.

She screams when he takes her maidenhood, tears leaking from her eyes, and he's contrite enough to stop for a moment, leaning down to her neck and inhaling her smell, trying to distract from her tightness that almost has him cumming then and there. Dirty and sweaty, it's a smell he's used to on himself, but never a woman, let alone one too young to be this unruly, and more skinny then not. He places a hand in her straw hair, the other at her boney hip, and bites her pungent neck. It's different from women he's used to; raw and untamed, a reflection of the wolf, he supposes.

When her cunt squeezes him in lust, he does a half thrust in response, eliciting a throaty moan from her, tinged with a sob. He raises himself from her, placing his hands in the cold snow about her head. The view below him his less then arousing, but for her red cheeks; had her twat been anything but tight and wet, he doubt he would have gotten hard enough.

She glares at him, still able to recognize that she would not choose him for a mate. However, as he offers a foul grin in return, she swivels her hips instinctively, begging for more friction. This time, he pulls all out, before slamming back in, eliciting another moan from her. Her eyes close, no doubt thinking of someone else, and he thrusts again, in turn thinking of matured women with better assets. Perhaps she'd be kissed with fire, as opposed to ashes as Arya is... and definitely more curvy, if he had his choice.

Other then their sexes, they're not touching. He wonders if she were free if she would scratch his back, and he groans in imagining it, thrusting as well. She'd most likely punch him, he thinks, thrusting harder. Good thing he kept her hands tied up, it wouldn't be worth it, no matter how arousing it is to think of, and he thrusts long and hard again thinking about her feistiness. Too bad she wasn't decently pretty as well.

Groaning aloud, he grabs her throat with one hand, punishing her for not being both strong and beautiful. It is not a strong grip, just a light pressure, but she gags nevertheless, breathless and arousing all the same. She opens her eyes again, moaning but portraying her anger in her eyes, and he just grits his teeth and thrusts again.

She meets him again and again, becoming quite the pro despite the fact that it is her first time. They can hear Nymeria and her rutting partner still going, growls filling the air. But as he goes faster, nearing his completion, they pay no mind to the wolves. He roars his release, spilling into Arya. She growls, loudly and angrily, but rides out his climax seeking her own release. He's almost spent, when she finally peaks as well, and he's glad he doesn't have to help her find her finish.

Slumping down on the girl (causing her to huff indignantly) he looks to the side, seeing that the wolves had finished as well, pretty much without them noticing it.

The rest of the trip to the Wall is silent and uneventful. He had finally cut the bonds from her wrists, and she was free. Though earlier in the trip, Arya had decided to go to the Wall as well, so it was no surprise to him that she stuck around.

The fight had not died out of Arya, but when Sandor had gently cleaned her woman's place and gently redressed her before releasing her bonds, when she could have done those herself, she had gleaned something of the man she had previously been unaware of.

Rubbing her still aching wrists when they're a day from their destination, she regarded her captor. "I know our ways are harsh."

He made no reply, not even to look at her.

"You're an asshole. But… you're the right kind of asshole." That got his attention, causing him to stop what he had been doing. "I'm not saying I like you, or would ever want to, but… " And here, she looks like she does not know what to say.

When he looks to her finally, it tumbles out, "You owe me, for Mycah. But you don't owe the world for him. Don't think you helping me with my wolf haze let you off. It was a rape, and I didn't ask for your help!"

"The fuck you trying to say, bitch?"

Sighing, Arya looks to the ground. "I don't know. But I won't try to kill you in the future. If you promise me one thing." And she looks at him again, steel eyes blazing.

"What?"

"Don't kill anymore innocents. Don't kill any more bystanders, no more dead who just happened to be in the wrong place. Don't kill anymore Mycahs".

After a few silent moments, Sandor grunts and nods. They turn from each other, silent again, but in understanding.

! #$%^&*

**Post Script: Thanks for all the lovely reviews! When I do get them, I literally smile at my phone (where I first read most emails), as if it were the love of my life. People look at me like I'm crazy or something. But I don't care. I love me some reviews. :)**

**Post Post Script: TWO...MORE... CHAPTERS... one more smut, and one epilogue that tells an end to a story.**


	21. The Queen's Bedding

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for the late update! Anyway. I'm not totally 100 percent happy with this chapter, I feel another chapter should have been the last "smut" chapter, and this one in the middle of the pack, but I hope this is enjoyed anyway.**

**Also, I always wanted to write a happy bedding scene, because I felt if I wrote one, through the process of writing it, I would realize why Westeros had such a strange custom. I think I was partly successful... Kinda like an ancient version of the bachelor/bachelorette party. Maybe? Anywho... reviews? **

DANERYS AND DROGO

Queen Danerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, first of her name, was pregnant.

No less than three Maesters had confirmed it, before the news was spread throughout Westeros that the queen was with child. It would take another few days for the news of her marriage to her consort, the Dothraki warrior Drogo, to follow the first news. The wedding would take place soon, before her stomach would swell beyond the tricks to hide it.

Lord Commander Snow, among others, had sent his congratulations. He asked for news about how such a miracle was granted to his grace, the queen. He was well within his rights, as a friend, to ask, and Dany was overjoyed to tell him how it happened.

Then Lord Snow had to share the news with Maester Bran the Younger, and both rejoiced that the thrice-cursed eclipse was actually a twice-blessed event. It had allowed Bran to grow hard (and it hadn't been a onetime event), and it allowed Dany to procreate (they hoped it would not be a onetime occasion for her, either).

The eclipse was still cursed by the Targaryen cousins who were now no longer in line to inherit the throne, but that is another story.

The day of the royal wedding came. It was a long and complicated spectacle; it included rites from the Old and the New Gods, plus those of the Dothraki. Never had Danerys been so fond of combining rituals to appease her subjects. It used to frustrate her to no end, but her wedding was, in her mind, perfect.

Drogo wanted nothing more than to skip the Dothraki presentation of presents and go straight for the Westorosi bedding that he heard so much about, but Dany would have him wait. He glared at everyone giving him and his new wife a gift, but it was more mock hot air then real anger.

Drogo finally had his bride to himself. Naturally he had to share the as yet unclaimed wife with the men one last time, before she was all his, forever and always. By nature, he was very possessive, but he had laughed as hard as any person present when it was time for the bedding. The women grabbed at him, pinching and groping, tittering and blushing. Their last chance to admire his physique and, ahem, "member", before it belonged to one woman only.

Knowing that, and knowing that his bride loved him and was jealous for only him, and was beautiful herself, could Drogo really begrudge the men their last chance of fondling her? Besides, Dany was laughing herself, the light and infectious one that brought joy to his heart.

Once they were naked together in their chambers, they laughed heartily together at the tomfoolery of it all. This laugh of hers went down an octave, and was rich for a woman. She reserved it for him, and he relished it.

The laughter died down, and they shared a quiet look. He reached to her, laying a hand on her just swelling stomach, and the other on her cheek. "Mine." He spoke.

Smiling, laying her hands over his one on her stomach, she asked, "Do you remember our first time?"

Chuckling, he replies in the affirmative: how could he not? She had been angry and bitter over the loss of Ser Jorah at the time: he, barely able to carry a conversation with her. They recall the raw and primal passion, which had not dimmed in the time they've been together, but rather had been enhanced by friendship and true affections.

"Our first as husband and wife should be different, even more then all the others." Dany mused.

He kisses her briefly, bringing their naked bodies closer, before asking what she had in mind, groaning in anticipation. They had sex quite regularly since they left the Wall, he can only imagine what new position she'd like to try.

She blushes furiously, with no reason to, as they had quite a list under their figurative belts; dog, backwards joust, side-by-side, him on top, knees over shoulders, ass-to-cock, etc. When she offers no suggestion after a while, he kisses her again, deep and longing. She moans, going flush against him, and he moves a hand to her ass, helping with their closeness.

When he moves to kiss her neck, she decides to show, rather than ask. Pushing his shoulders, she laughs at his questioning look, pushing him some more, till his knees hit their bed and he sits.

Only when he maneuvers to the headboard, as she requested, does she follow him. She stalks him, prowling a bit like he's seen her dragons act; hungry for the kill, quiet and gracefully crawling nearer to their dinner, shining eyes of lust, leathery wings low to the ground, as her hair drapes around her shoulders offering tantalizing glimpses of her body behind. He welcomes the chance to be devoured by her.

Not disappointing him in the least, she climbs over his legs, straddling them, before she grabs his cock, stroking it, and swallowing it as far as she can take him. Groaning in pleasure, he grabs her hair as if they were reins, thrusting into her as she works him up. All too soon, she's off of his member, sitting up and scooting closer to him. Moving close to his ear, taking his hands into her own, she whispers, "I would ride you like the stallion you are."

They stare at each other during the span of a blink, eyes hooded and dark, before she lets go of his hands to grab his shoulders, raising herself above his sex. "Moon of my life," he, thick with accent, tells her, "ride me through the night." And he grabs her hips, though not to move her, but to encourage.

So she falls on him, moaning loudly in the process. Quickly, she rises again, only to fall again, keeping her eyes on him, knowing that he enjoys it as much as she.

She gallops hard upon him, and he in turn was an excellent mount, flexing and thrusting at all the right moments. Because she's in charge of this ride, and wants to prolong it, she slows it down, leaning in to kiss Drogo, who groans with the shock of the slowed movements, buy relishing how her hips swivel upon him, enjoying her mounting as no saddle has a right to enjoy.

She releases his lips, moving back to start up another gait, a trot this time, and she takes the opportunity to rake her hands all over his torso, relishing the heat he gives off and the sheen of sweat, admiring his smell as it mixes with her perfume. If nothing else, his smell alone could please her; so she leans close again, smashing their chests together, allowing her the chance to inhale his scent, and bite his neck appreciatively.

He, in turn, caresses her sides, leaving a trail of light goose bumps as his calloused hands trace the swell of her growing breasts, the flair of her hips, and the round smoothness of her ass. They each shiver with their treatments received, and he gropes her butt, squeezing and maneuvering, begging for more friction and speed.

She gradually speeds up again, the force of the oncoming ecstasy prompting them both to jerk and messily speed up to meet the promise of an overwhelming finish.

And the finish comes, strong and powerful, her already sensitive pregnant body tingling in an overpowering way, causing her to close her eyes, unable to focus on anything but the onslaught of pleasure, screams escaping her lips and permeating their marital room, shortly thereafter joined by a powerful baritone of manly ecstasy.

Only when they both calm down does she mutter "whoa", slumping against her husband, the horse lord, now Queen's Consort Drogo. "Whoa, indeed." He agrees, and then they're both breathlessly laughing. He fingers her long, curling, hair, and a far off, but satiated, look upon his features.

"What is it, my sun and my stars?"

He pecks her lips before responding, "I hope our babe has a hint of your beauty: your eyes of amethysts, your hair of molten silver, your smiles that light up my life, my precious moon."

She smiles at him, cupping his face within her hands, "And I hope our babe has a hint of your strength: may he or she always love to run, may he or she laugh in the face of danger as you do, and have the secret wisdom to be one with horses."

They kiss again, and it only leads to other positions that make their marriage bedding one of the top five, more happily successful wedded beddings, in the history of Westeros.

...

**Post Script: I would like to thank readers for their patience! Also, thanks for any reviews, follows, and/or favorites! It cheers me up. **


	22. Epilogue 1: Nymeria

**Author's Notes: I'm not the biggest fan of singling out readers in author's notes, BUT, this chapter would not exist without one reviewer, so I'd like to thank "xxsupernaturalgalxx" for pushing for another chapter featuring GENDRYA. It's through the eyes of another, and there's no smut... but I'd like to think it meets your request. This exist because of you, and I hope you, and other readers, enjoy!**

NYMERIA

She padded through the moonlit rooms of her den, instinctively cataloging familiar smells and wary for unknown ones. Satisfied all is well, she pushes her way into her mistress's room, quietly and gently climbing onto the bed of furs and tangled limbs. The woman smells of strength and love, the man of salt and friendliness. Though wolves mate for life, Nymeria has taken to loving this man more then any male wolf that might mount her.

Nymeria's sister, Lady, has mated for life with Summer, but Nymeria has had three litters and had not known positively who was the sire. Somehow, she is aware of the dwindling numbers of direwolves, and it's instinctive not to choose one mate, to not stagnate the gene pool. The male human that she loves, however, has been faithfully mated to her mistress for many cycles now, so many beyond the wolf's counting.

She lies at their feet on the bed, smelling the pungent appendages even through many layers of fur. It's comforting, and she feels her eyes closing, sleep claiming her old soul.

She awakes to pattering feet of the young. Her own pups have been assigned along the Wall, as soon as they could hunt on their own. The three female babes, however, have not yet left their mother's side, and the wolf treats them as her own; nipping them when they do not behave, licking their wounds clean, scaring bullies away, and, while they are tiny, carrying them around from the scruff of their tunics.

The eldest girl, Nym, able to feed herself and walk and form human sounds of communication, jumps onto the bed. Nymeria is not surprised, and neither is her mistress it seems, but the man yelps, almost jumping at the rude awakening. The woman and girl laugh, and Nymeria loll her tongue out in good spirits.

Recovering, the man starts tickling the girl, and laughter fills the air. Panting in excitement, Nymeria stands on the bed, tail wagging, waiting for an invitation to join.

"Nymie!" Comes a squeal from the door. The middle girl, Mary, is crawling through the door, staring straight at the wolf. Nymeria is used to bad pronunciations of her name, and gets down from the bed to lick the little girl, who laughs in turn, trying to pet, but ultimately smacking, the wolf. She pays no mind to the smacks, and just grabs the babe from the scruff and carrying her to the bed, where she hands the girl off to her mistress. Arya rubs her head, going for the spots behind the ears and causing her to growl in pleasure.

The man has stopped tickling the eldest girl, and they're talking about food, a few words the she knows filtering through her ears; promises of "bacon", "toast", and "sausages" making her realize, she could go for food right about now, despite the successful hunt she had last night.

She turns her head away from her mistress's hand upon hearing the youngest, Rhea, starting to squall. Not waiting for the humans, the wolf pads out of the room and towards the messy room of the girls. Coming to the crib, she sees the youngest is red faced and sad. Placing her snout through the bars, she licks the face, and the baby magically stops, unsure of what to make of it, fingering the mucous on her face as if it were the strangest thing in the world.

Her mistress laughs at that. Picking the babe up, she lowers the shoulder of her human contraption, allowing the babe to suckle at her breast. Tail still wagging; she follows mother and daughter to the kitchen, where the man has started to cook, with the eldest on the stool next to him looking serious in her cooking training. The middle child is on the floor at his feet, playing with a yarn doll their friend, Lady's mistress, had made for them.

Butting her way through their bodies, she is rewarded with a scrap of bacon despite her rude behavior. Chomping the meat, she walks to the door, planting herself there and slowly, despite what one would think, relishing the treat.

They're talking, and bits of known words filter through her conscious, and she knows that Lady's mistress, Sansa, will come by with her own pup, and will watch the four babes as her own mate, Sandor, and Nymeria's humans go to train at the Wall.

The bacon consumed, she watches her pack interact in the golden morning, relishing the minute signs of contentment. Her mistress keeps the youngest in her arms, even after the babe is finished with the breast. Her mistress's mate keeps touching Arya in small ways, always with a smile, and sometimes he pecks her on the lips.

The elder girl teaches the next to hold a fork, while the middle girl keeps glancing slyly at her "Nymie", occasionally "accidentally" dropping bits of sausage from her fork for the wolf to snatch.

Far from scolding, the eldest will laugh too, and also "accidentally" drop bits of toast with butter. Nymeria likes the butter more then the toast, but she'll eat it all. It is a game for the girls, but the wolf doesn't mind, and neither do the human adults. They smile indulgently, while all know that if Auntie Sansa were around, she would hide her amusement behind a straight face (but she would be amused, there would be no denying that).

Lady barks her and her pack's arrival, and Nymeria bounds outdoors to tumble with her sister. Lady is weaker from an ancient wound, but she can hold her own against stupid humans, and can still play. Nymeria minds her sister's sensitive neck, but is so happy to see her, that they're rolling in the dirt despite Sansa's gasping in distress.

The one her mistress calls "Dog" laughs deeply, and Nymeria turns to head butt him, playfully nipping at his outstretched hand. Then she licks Sansa's fragrant hand in hello, before chasing a laughing boy who's parents have named "Pip".

After what seems an eternity of hellos and hugs and human speech, Nymeria is finally on her way to the Wall with her mistress Arya, as well as with Gendry and Sandor. It's barely a league away, and the sun is still low in the sky when she leaves the humans to wrestle with her wolf family under the shadow of the Wall.

Soon she sees in her mind that Arya is going beyond the Wall. It has been a long while since she has gone there, ever since Nym first swelled within Arya's womb, till Rhea was born, Nymeria's mistress had not gone ranging. She kept up with training, but usually it was Gendry who ranged away from their pack, along with her. She sometimes felt Arya in her consciousness, keeping an eye on them in their unique bond.

Nymeria feels Arya's restlessness now, and she reciprocates by running ahead of her mistress's host, eager to scout ahead.

It's an uneventful ranging; as most are nowadays, spring upon them once again. However, Nymeria finds it harder to keep up her stamina, and she feels aches all along her body. No one would know, though, if not for Arya. She calls for their medicine man, the fat but friendly one, and he caresses her fur as kindly as he does for Ghost, and pronounces her just aging. She licks away Arya's tears, unaware of what all the fuss was about; it was the natural way of things, was it not?

She would fight, till she could fight no more. She would eat till her teeth fell away. She would play until her joints hurt too much. And when it was all done with, she would lay and sleep and wake no more. Sensing the fear even without their bond, Nymeria allows Arya to hold her and weep into her fur without protesting much. And when Gendry hugs them both, she licks his face, thankful for his compassion to whatever is ailing her mistress.

Nymeria's brothers also ail, as does Lady. Many more cycles go by, though, before the unknown end will appear. She still hunts and ranges, though slower and usually with a younger dire wolf along as well. She still nips, and growls, and plays, and stalks, and hunts, and everything else a creature of the Wall does, right up till the last moon of her life.

Lady has been gone for a while now. Nymeria had been with her at the end, whimpering and licking her to make her better, but knowing it fruitless. And when Lady had passed, Nymeria sang the song of loss, joining in with her brother's howls to the stars.

Pip had lost his parents by then, and he took it the hardest, loosing yet another of his family. He had had grasped at Lady's fur in denial, and when they had taken Lady away for burial, he had placed his snot in Nymeria's fur instead, but she cared not.

Pip was here now, holding onto the hands of his pseudo sisters. Nym, Mary, and Rhea were all crying, though their tears were silent. They had reached young adulthood, in human terms, and one had even made vows to the black. Ghost, the remaining direwolf of their litter, was whining in the background, while Arya knelt before her, tearless but joyless, rubbing her fur and speaking every now and then of good times. Gendry knelt behind Arya, hands on her shoulders, a glint of tears in his eyes.

Ghost howls for her, long and mournful. No longer does breath move through Nymeria's lungs.

Her eyes, though, they still see. They are less sharp, but still it serves when one is guarding against the long night.

Her nose, that still works too. No longer do smells make themselves known like a wall to the face, but still it serves to know between a festering wound and a clean one without waiting too long.

Her ears, those too live on. Never can one be surprised that Gendry is sneaking up behind.

Nymeria watches Gendry grow old. He gets burly, but never fat; wrinkles crinkling in happiness, toothy grins always bright. She loves his distinctive smell, and his deep, rumbling laugh. She loves to touch him, to feel his smooth skin under her equally fur-less paws, reveling in his own brand of strength. She sighs, always in pleasure, when he pets her, never shying away from her own weakening skins. Sometimes, her mind is shut out, but always afterwards, she feels blissful satiation; and she knows he is the happy cause.

Her life is surrounded by him, and of brief flashes of skirmishes where her skills as a dangerous direwolf are put to good use again. Life floats on by though, sometimes with glimpses of her children: three girls who become mother, warrior, or innkeeper in their own rights. Sometimes awareness of other people float by, and she'll attempt to nudge them with her head, or playfully nip at them. Her blunt teeth remind her of who is in charge, and her small head shakes in amusement, and all share a moment in remembrance of a faithful companion.

Arya is always with her. Never does Nymeria have a thought that is not known by her mistress, though sometimes Arya can keep her thoughts to herself (most have to do with Gendry, and their mating). It is her mistress's turn to protect them both, though Nymeria lends her her senses. It's Arya's turn to run through the woods, sometimes for no reason at all. Sometimes, she'll even indulge Nymeria and eat raw meat, though that is very rare.

It is also Arya's turn to grow old, to grow frail, to become bedridden. Gendry has passed to the great beyond, and Nymeria feels a chasm of sadness, but also an oasis of memory. They are brightened when new pups arrive, ones that beg for stories, stories of grand-sires, of wolves, maybe a fallen princess, or the one about the Hound. If Nymeria still had a tail, she would wag it during those happy moments, smelling their youth and exuberance, basking in their love and admiration.

In the end, Rhea, Mary, and Nym are all that stand beside Arya's bed. Neither woman nor wolf mind, really, and are content to talk about whatever their girls wish. In Arya's final moments, she makes them swear to bury her next to Gendry, and when they do, she sighs one last time, a smile on her face, a life well lived.

...

**Post Script: I may have gotten really close to crying with both of my epilogues. Though they are somewhat sad, I do hope they convey long lives that were happy and awesome. Also, I hope it was clear what I was trying to convey with Nymeria and Arya's connection in the second half of the chapter. If it's confusing, let me know, and I'll try to clear it up. I also originally tried to write it from Arya's POV, but Nymeria would not be denied, and for an epilogue, why not?  
**


	23. Epilogue 2: Little Pip

**Author's Notes: One last time to say THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS/FOLLOWS/FAVORITES! It makes me feel legit, and honored (and giddy with happiness). And to all the Guest reviewers that I can not personally thank through messaging (though I think a few notes come from the same guest), thank you.  
**

**2)For those who might not know, Peregrine Falcon is a real type of bird of prey. Apparently the popular one for falconry. ****Only after I wrote this, picking Peregrine for a boy's bird name in honor of Sansa's "Little Bird" nickname, did I realize that Peregrine would probably be better for somebody in the Arryn family. Oh well. I just like the name. How many other manly bird names are there anyway?**

**3)I see this as a kind of "passing on the torch" type of story. As always, hope you enjoy. **

PEREGRINE FALCON

Little Pip, as his father liked to call Peregrine, had just celebrated his seventh name day (full of lemon cakes and toy weapons and a new pet falcon that his father would train him with), when there was a major shift in his life. As an adult, he barely remembers life before living at Castle Black, but when he recalls the Hearth of his childhood, he recalls how beautiful his mother looked, how brave his father was.

Pip, as a child, remembers stories about how the Hound couldn't leave the Wall, or he'd become rabid and restless. How he tried once to be domesticated, once his pup arrived, but couldn't handle it, so returned to the Wall. Pip remembers hearing how his mother, bruised and bleeding, had returned to her cage to sing and exchange wit with men, but not kisses. Pip remembers whispers about how a hound and a bird should never live together, that it was "the Hound's" entire fault.

His mother always told him what a brave man his father was: defending the realm, defending her honor. Pip wonders if it was his father who brought his mother away from the hound, and asks his father this very question. His father just shook his head, and told Pip not to worry about it, that no harm would ever befall him or his mother. It was not a very gratifying answer, but Pip left it alone.

He saw his father at least once a senight, if not more. His mother was always there for him though: telling him stories, teaching him his letters, sneaking him lemon cakes, tugging at his unkempt clothes, hugging him, kissing him, keeping the monsters away; all the things a mother should do, he thought.

She would do all that for his father, too. And he would giggle at the thought that his father, a seasoned warrior of the Wall, needed protection from the monsters too. His father would rumple his hair, and tell him he had had no mother half as wonderful as Pip's own, and he should cherish his mother for it. At the time, it was an intimate, father and son, smile. Later, Pip would understand.

Sometimes, when he could not sleep for fear of dark nights full of terrors, he would tip toe to his mother's room at the Hearth. If he was lucky, he could climb into her bed, snuggle with her, and dream of happy things. If he was unlucky, his father would be there, and his mother would be chasing away his dreams, and not Pip's.

Pip would hear his father's grunts and moans, but his mother would never make a sound. Pip imagined that his father was fighting monsters, defending his mother; or that she was holding him as he shook in fear, never knowing their lovemaking for what it was till he was older. In any event, Pip would then go to the kitchens to eat away his fears.

Pip once heard his father's wrenching sobs across the door. He stayed at the door that time, listening as his mother cooed at his father. Pip heard her whispering, but not what was said, and he could imagine her stroking his father's hair, as she was wont to do when he himself was crying. Near the end of that night, Pip heard his father saying, "I'm sorry" over and over again, while his mother soothed him with "It is OK, love, it's OK." And, "You are not your brother, you are not my late husband."

As a man grown, Peregrine learned hatred directed at his father. Though he would remember how his father would caress his mother, and look at her as if she were the finest woman in all of Westeros, he would shake in anger over the news that his father hadn't protected his mother from the Hound because he WAS the Hound.

Peregrine's fury would cloud his senses upon learning how the Hound had once laid a vengeful hand upon his mother, choking her, smacking her, and dragging a knife along her throat and stomach. Rabid, resentful of domesticated life, the Hound had snapped one day, unable to keep his fury in check until it was _almost _too late. Peregrine promised himself he would never loose his anger in such a fashion.

He spent a fortnight telling anyone who would listen, that if the Hound (not his father, nor Sandor, but the Hound) were still alive, he'd kill him. His mentor, Arya, said that the Hound did indeed deserve no favors, but she said it so sympathetically, Pip wondered if she was just indulging him.

The Old Wolf, Commander Snow, told the Young Falcon (as they had started to call him, after his falconry skills) that the Hound had already paid for his sins, so Pip should shut up. Peregrine spent two days in the ice cells after punching the Commander in the face for that.

He had seen the Commander, Aunt Arya, and his father friendly towards each other. He has memories of good times, and he wonders at how such anger could overshadow all that was good. No relationship was perfect, and there had only been the one time. Most would say once was enough and would be correct, but, nearly seven years of Pip's childhood was good and loving, though he could only grasp a handful of memories. And even before he was conceived, carried, and born; his parents had that which bards sing of.

As an adult, Peregrine knows now of his father's issues and temperament; most would say it was a miracle he hadn't struck Sansa sooner, or more often, such as he was. As a man, Peregrine knows it isn't a miracle; it is a testament to the strength of love both his parents had for the other.

Peregrine recalls, soon after his seventh name day, his father on a cot in the Hearth, red all over his body, bloody and smelly with festering wounds. His mother, ever like her nickname of "Little Bird", had fluttered around his father, keeping him alive for longer then anyone had a right to live. She sobbed, and hugged him, not caring in the least for sickness or blood.

On his lucid days, his father would spend his dying time stroking his mother's cheek, fingering her hair, whispering oaths of love. His mother returned the sentiments. As if they had never done so before, nor would ever have the chance again; the boy had been confused, but the man was saddened anew.

On one of his father's better days, he called for his Little Pip. Pip cried, in shame at the time, in fondness later. When told he would not be able to see his father anymore, Pip cried "Why!?", sobbing and pounding at his father's chest and mother's skirts, demanding that his father promised to teach him all kinds of things; and Pip learned about what it was really like to defend the Wall. Others, White Walkers, bears, wild wolves, all that and more would tear a man to shreds. His father was lucky, they said, to make it back to say "goodbye" one more time, before the many stings of an Evil Uncle's blade finished him (said uncle who lost his head during that battle).

Little Pip's father's last words were "Be good to your mother". The Hound's last had been, "I'm so sorry, Little Bird."

Pip's mother, despite the efforts of the Maesters, fell sick and died soon after; illness contracted from the very festering wounds the Hound had suffered. Maester Samwell tells an adult Peregrine that his mother should have lived, but her soul just did not want it. Not even Pip, her son, could shake her out of her fog of depression. He never got a chance to honor his father's dying wish.

The Hound and his Little Bird were buried, side-by-side, under a wild Weirwood tree near the outskirts of Mole Town. There was a Child of the Forest there, to say some words, but all Pip can remember is tears falling down his face, blurring the images of the red leaves, and faces of those who tried to comfort him.

Peregrine spent the rest of his life living up to his mother's goodness, and redeeming his father's nature; groomed by the Old Wolf to be the Young Falcon, the next Commander of the Night's Watch.


End file.
